running across the West Side Highway toward Chelsea Piers.
I know because I was in the car that almost killed him.
Ray hit the brakes, Jason Bateman stopped short with his arms
stretched toward the car, knees bent, eyes searching, as if to scream
“STOP!” Our eyes locked. “Hey, that’s Jason Bateman!” I said,
kind of in a flat tone, too, for the intensity of the moment.
Jason realized he was still alive and returned to running
across the lanes of traffic. Does he mind if I call him Jason?
But let’s focus on the moment of our eyes locking.
Was it just me, or as his heart pummeled the inside of his chest
and my own heart did some frantic hijinks in that flash
of the balance of life careening toward death and back again –
did we share something? I mean, we did, right?
Just because I would not even remember the incident
were it not Jason Bateman, that doesn’t mean much
because that’s not what happened. It WAS Jason Bateman.
It could have been a less famous actor whose name I could not
recall. But it wasn’t. I will never forget our palpably intense
moment of true connection because I respect his work
as an actor and director. I mean, I saw Meg Ryan in Soho once,
but I’m not writing a poem about that because we did not
nearly kill her. Jason Bateman nearly died. He communicated
with us through body language. His eyes pled with us, “Please stop!”
“Don’t kill me!” even. That’s the very marrow of life
right there. We let Jason Bateman live. You’re welcome.
