{The Jian Chronicles: The Rest of the Story}

{From the beginning: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5}

On Saturday morning, I woke so completely and so suddenly that you'd think I'd been snapped on the nose with a rubber band. I was confused. I was sad. It had all been a dream. Of course it had. I have very vivid dreams.

In my dream I'd been sitting next to Jian Ghomeshi in the restaurant down the street at 2 o'clock in the morning, wearing my teal blue tie dye jeggings, and he'd been patting my back and saying in his big radio voice, "Suzy, Suzy, Suzy. Thank you so much for coming. Thank you for being so enthusiastic." And Barclay had been there too, eating a piece of Jian Ghomeshi's pizza. And a bunch of people from CBC radio were there. And a random guy named Mitch who was allergic to gluten and had a band named Peanut Butter Genocide which played nineties video-game-inspired psychedelic rock. And there was a lively discussion about fish. I hate waking up from dreams like that.

I stumbled up the stairs, body still half asleep. I kicked something hard in the dimly lit hallway and winced. Light switch. Squinting, eye-adjusting. There were my shoes, there was my coat, right where I'd dropped them the night before. I froze. I got a single goose bump. There was Barclay's ticket stub and the signed letter and my purse. And my phone. I dove for my phone. I touched the photo icon in the top right corner. And there, somehow, was the picture. The picture from the dream. And I guess that was when I realized that none of it had been a dream after all. Everything, right down to Mitch and the Peanut Butter Genocide, was real.

Jian's show the night before had been great. I went with Barclay and Liz and Robin and Hannah and this other girl who was really nice but whose name I can't remember. Jian was funny and well-spoken and smart, which was exactly what we'd expected him to be. I feel sorry for performers, having so much expected of them. But that is how you sell out venues, I guess. You get people's expectations up and then you get them to pay money to see if you can meet those expectations. And then, for the rest of your life, your career is based on if you can live up to these ridiculous expectations complete strangers have of you. That is why I will never be a performer. It sounds exhausting. It sounds like going to the mall as a teenage girl.

Anyway, Jian met and exceeded and then the show was over and there was a book signing, where you wrote your own name on a yellow sticky note and took it and your copy of his book to the table where he would write you a cute little personalized note on the inside cover. I didn't want him to sign my book. I wanted him to sign my letter. You know the one.

So we got in the line-up and waited patiently. And when we got to the front of the line, we were met with a knowing chuckle. "Suzy," Jian Ghomeshi said.

I laughed nervously. "Yeah. Me again," I said. I tried to regulate the redness of my face.

"And this is the husband?"

"Yes--Barclay," I said. Because being conversational is really, really hard sometimes. Like when you're talking to someone who is conversational for a living.

"Nice to meet you, man," he said to Barclay. They shook hands. I pulled out my letter and he laughed and signed it and I apologized for being ridiculous and he told me to stop apologizing.
Then he motioned for us to move in closer, out of earshot of the people waiting impatiently behind us, and whispered, "Hey. You two wanna meet us at La Bodega after this? I'm not sure how late this'll go, but...just after, you know?"

I get twenty thousand points for not slapping him across the face in the fizzy-blooded excitement of that moment. I just calmly took Barclay's hand and said, mostly nonchalantly, "Oh, cool, yeah, that could be fun. Thanks. We'll see you later. Then. Okay. Sure." Smile, nod. Nod, nod, nod. Smile. "Okay."

Fifty thousand points for not doing cartwheels out the door. Don't tell me cartwheels wouldn't even cross your mind if your favourite celebrity asked you to hang out with them.

Barclay and I arrived at La Bodega about an hour later. It was crowded and there was no sign of Jian Ghomeshi anywhere. This is pretty standard for La Bodega. We grabbed a table in a corner and surveyed the room. I rested my chin in my hand. "I bet he invited a billion people. I bet we won't even see him. We can go home if you want?"

But no sooner had the words left my mouth than I felt a hand on my shoulder.

"Suzy!" The very familiar voice. "I got a table in the back with my CBC friends. You wanna come sit with us?" We couldn't see why not. Obviously.

And so, we found ourselves following Jian Ghomeshi through the dimly lit restaurant, past tables and people and doorways, around a corner and into a room with a long table with about seven vaguely familiar-looking faces around it. The CBC friends. It felt as though they were happy to see us, but only because when you enter a room with Jian Ghomeshi, it will always feel as though the people in the room are happy to see you. So I guess that's how it feels to be Jian Ghomeshi.

He slid into the booth next to a girl with long brown hair and a spiky bracelet. The CBC girls were wearing a lot of makeup and perfume and jangly jewelry. Nice shiny clothes. Probably high heels. I was wearing teal tie dye jeggings and black high-top chucks. I'm allergic to eye-liner. I twisted a piece of hair around my finger and cleared my throat. Jian gestured at me and Barclay. "Everybody, this is Suzy and her husband Barclay." Everyone smiled or nodded or mumbled and we smiled and nodded and mumbled back. He motioned for me to sit next to him. I was relieved to be able to hide my chucks under the table. Barclay slid in after me.

Jian patted me on the back and smiled. I smiled back.  I tried to think of what people say. What do people say? What do I say? Do I say things, normally? He was still smiling at me, still patting me on the back. So I said, "Thank you. For. Inviting us. Here. And." It would appear that, while I do say things, I am maybe not very good at it.

"Suzy, Suzy, Suzy," he said. "Thank you so much for coming. Thank you for being so enthusiastic." I nodded. I said thanks again. I apologized for the emails again. He said to stop apologizing again. I said I was apologizing because I didn't know what else to say. I don't know why I said that. Maybe I should've just patted him on the back and said, "Jian, Jian, Jian."

The night went on, because that's just what nights do. He asked Barclay and I where we met, and shared his pizza, and laughed at something I said even though it wasn't funny. The other people at our table started to talk to us, even though I wasn't wearing high heels or eye liner. The guy across from me was named Mitch and he was allergic to gluten and had a band named Peanut Butter Genocide which played nineties video-game-inspired psychedelic rock. The girl at the end of the table was named Charlotte and she thought it was zen to swim with big fish. A debate about the zen-ness of swimming with big fish ensued.

And every once in a while, I'd look up and there was Jian Ghomeshi sitting right next to me and I'd think, "This guy is, like, friends with Rush," or whatever. But then I'd start arguing with Charlotte again about how fish are not zen. And it just felt sort of normal, which was strange but not in a bad way.

We went home around 2 AM. Crawled into bed. And then I thought of a bunch of questions I'd always wanted to ask Jian Ghomeshi if I ever met him in real life. Because that's the way it goes.

Anyway.

This morning I sat and read through those silly blog posts from a couple of weeks ago, when I wrote that initial email, and this bit made me laugh right out loud {from here}:

"I think my subconscious intention at the beginning of this whole thing was basically, as embarrassing as it is to admit, to make Jian Ghomeshi acknowledge my existence. That's all. I mean, I figure that's a people thing. We think someone's cool, we admire them, we want them to like us back. Just, most people keep it to themselves. 

 How dignified of them. 

Anyway. I knew in the back of my little Norwegian heart, because I'm not five anymore, that I'd most likely get a slightly condescending 'rejection' letter from some PR person in Toronto in reply to my letter. That Jian Ghomeshi is busy and important and doesn't have time to sit down for coffee with or even write a quick note to every person who has listened to Q since 2007. Totally fair. 

But I've also always been one of those people who try as hard as I can to ignore the most likelies and cling to the magical "what ifs"... 

Anything could happen. Because life is sweet like that."

Isn't that the truth?