ALMOST CARRIE ~ AC & SJP, Part 2

We left off last week with me and Sarah Jessica Parker alone in an elevator, her a guest at an awards ceremony honoring Cynthia Nixon, and me a volunteer working the event.  She had just told me that she loved my outfit, which included an oversized flower pin à la Carrie Bradshaw.  The year was 2006.

Now, what you need to realize here is that I felt a certain intimacy with Sex and the City because of my job.  I felt, really, like a part of it, a member of the crew, a stagehand, a cog in the wheel of the show.  I made a living talking about the behind the scenes aspects of production, explaining to my tourists the nuts and bolts of filming, from auditions to locations to background actors and parking permits.  Despite the fact that the show was already off the air, there was no question that the Sex and the City tour was a phenomenal success; thousands of people were taking the tour each week, and On Location Tours had been featured in news outlets all over the world.  SATC reruns were rapidly gaining momentum in syndication, and there was a definite sense that the tour was fueling an on-going interest in the show, while the syndication deals were fueling a non-stop interest in the tour.  All of this is to say that I felt that I was in the Sex and the City business, and since Sarah Jessica Parker was also in the Sex and the City business, I believed we had something in common.  It was from this place of shared business interests that I made my next comment.

“I just have to tell you,” I said, “I am a Sex and the City tour guide so, like, my whole life is Sex and the City.”

Looking back, I realize that this was not the most eloquent way to express myself, that this hiccuped attempt did not convey my real meaning, did not properly communicate our legitimate professional connection.  In the moment, however, it was the best I could do.

Sarah Jessica Parker, her face shockingly lined in a way that only made her seem more beautiful, flinched.  In response to the statement that, like, my whole life was Sex and the City, she said: “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

It was an unfettered, unexpected response, a bit of reflexive candor that came, not from a place of contempt, but a place of exhaustion.

I paused.

“It must be terrible,” I said, “Having those busloads of tourists coming through your neighborhood every day.”

“No, no,” she said.  “It’s just hard when, you know, you find strangers sitting on your stoop…”

I was confused.  I had never given anyone Sarah Jessica Parker’s address.  I told my tourists that she lived in the West Village, but I didn’t point out her house.  Were the other guides telling people her street number?  Was our company getting a reputation for being a celebrity hound?  That was the last thing I wanted.

And then there was a shift, barely perceptible, in which SJP swallowed her tiny moment of weary indulgence, straightened her spine, and said, “Oh, but I’m so glad the show is creating jobs.  Does the company treat you well?”

I saw the whole thing: the curtain part to reveal a woman who grapples with complex feelings about the choices she’s made, and the curtain close as she returned to the person she needs to be to exist in the public eye—humble, gracious, selfless. It was an observation made possible only by the confines of an elevator.

“Oh yes, it is a wonderful job,” I assured her.

“That is so good to hear,” she said.

The door opened then, and I delivered her to the press, where she answered questions about Cynthia’s talent before coming down for lunch.  Later that day, there was a lot of whispered nonsense from the event staff about Sarah Jessica Parker refusing to pose for photographs.  She told everyone that this was Cynthia’s day, that Cynthia should be the subject of the photos, not her.  The studio hosting the event was irritated, the whole reason they even invited SJP was to get more exposure and how could they do that without pictures?  I felt sad and protective, my elevator friend’s good intentions dragged through the mud.

There is a reason why I don’t tell this story during my tour.  It’s too complicated.  When you hear the part where she says “God, I’m so sorry,” it’s too easy to misinterpret as rude.  I don’t have time to tell the story the way it deserves to be told, with all the delicate layers of meaning I perceived, and the lovely, intricate human being who stood before me.  And so, although I am asked all the time—Have you ever met her?—I choose to keep my answer brief.  “Oh, I’ve seen her around,” I say,  “She’s a notorious walker.”

A Public Figure in a Private Moment

Emily Sproch is a writer and a “Sex and the City” tour guide.  Each Friday, she chronicles the fine line between reality and fiction in her column “Almost Carrie.”