Flying to LA with Jon Voigt

Jon Voight was on my flight from New York to LA.  I was good--I didn't bother him, though everyone else did. The older adults thanked him for "Midnight Cowboy"; teenagers paid their respects to the man who gave us a decade of films about corrupt politicians, Zoolander's coal-mining dad and Angelina Jolie. Jon Voight sat in first class, underlining sentences in a book. I remembered that in "Mission Impossible" he also sat first class, and watched a video which then smokily self-destructed in the tape deck. If we were skyjacked, my money says he would be the mole.

At the baggage claim, I suddenly realised that I was staring right at him. Then I saw he was actually staring at me. This is how Tom Cruise busted him at the end of "Mission Impossible". I promptly studied my sneakers. When I looked up, he was gone; or rather, he'd walked halfway around to stand right next to me.  We were wearing the same colour sweater (light blue), but I'd be hard-pressed to find his (strong, old-manly) brand of cologne. I concentrated on the conveyor belt and tried to think of something smooth to say: neither too awestruck, nor too cool. I couldn't. A good three minutes passed like this. I could help him with his bags. He was in "Deliverance". I could whistle the banjo theme from "Deliverance". He left with his man.

LA is a weird place.