“Happy Birthday.” - Gary Oldman

Fifty, fabulous, and making fun of a famous friend’s childhood trauma.

Have you ever stuck your foot in your mouth? Said a thing you thought was funny/lightening the mood when no one else thought it was funny or was laughing? Well, let me tell ya’ a little story about what happened to me on my secret birthday weekend, which, also could have been the poster child for LAUGHING MATTERS She types as she rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

For the last few months, my partner, Tor, has gone to great lengths to shroud my big birthday surprise weekend in mystery and deceit. I have to say, if you’d asked me where I wanted to be and be doing on my 50th, I would have never guessed where he was taking me or what we did. I can’t say that I would have even asked for it, but, I can now say, I’m glad we did it and grateful to have a love in my life that cares enough to make, one of the biggest birthdays in one’s life, special.

The mystery journey began this past Saturday with me asking what I should bring to wear. “Something cool/nice for the ‘event’ and whatever else you think,” Tor replied. “What kind of weather is it going to be?” “Oh…not too cold really,” he replied. “Should I bring an umbrella?”, I asked. “No. It’s not supposed to rain where we’re going.” And with that, I felt like had enough information to prepare my weekend bag for the two-day jaunt.

We arrived at Paris’ Gare du Nord where it was revealed that we were heading to London’s St. Pancras station. Exciting, but also, it wasn’t our final destination and apparently there was some “event” that we would be attending that evening at 7:30 so if we missed our connection in London to the actual destination, the entire “event” would be missed and everything would be fucked. A fucked fiftieth. We spent most of the Eurostar ride working on our respective writing projects and trying our hardest to avoid what could have quite possibly been the cutest baby either of us had ever seen, including our own, who seemed to love playing peek-a-boo between the two chairs in front of us.

This was NOT the baby. This is an AI-generated pic of a “baby looking back at us through the seats on a train.” Notice, the seats are facing the windows. Come on AI, you can do better.

We made the connection across the street at King’s Cross Station which I knew was heading to Edinburgh, but there were many stops along the way, which could have been ours. I guessed we were heading to York but it was an informed guess because Tor had mentioned that we would have another 2-hour leg from London to the “surprise” spot. The good news was that, barring any freak delays on this route, we would definitely be arriving in time for the big “event” which was only revealed to me as having a “glamour” theme as well as “on brand” for a birthday. My mind was dancing with thoughts, mostly of which, I only brought a few things to wear, none of them “glamorous.”

Nothing says, “I’m comfortable in my manhood” more than Tor drinking a cosmo. It’s why I love him. Not because he is a man, but because he’s not afraid to drink like a woman.

We arrived in York, walked the 15 minutes to our hotel, the Number One York, which was pretty swanky with it’s radiant heated bathroom floors and bespoke decor that said, “rock ‘n roll” but also, “quaintly chic” - a gift from Tor and his mother for me to feel special. I did. And I didn’t take it for granted. These were the kinds of places I used to stay in all…the…time and took for granted when I was married to Wall Street, as opposed to being a freelance creative living on a fixed budget of child support and spending most of what I make as a writer covering my $865/month healthcare costs (not including the $2K deductible) Can’t wait to get back to America! She says, sarcastically, whilst pounding out her rage on an iPad keyboard that can’t quite handle it. Don’t worry. That’s the last time I refer to myself in the third person.

We dressed for the “event” and snuck in a classy drink beforehand at the hotel bar: a Casamigos tequila on the rocks for me and, of course, a cosmopolitan for Tor. Nothing says, “I’m comfortable in my manhood”, more than Tor drinking a cosmo. It’s why I love him. Not because he is a man, but because he’s not afraid to drink like a woman.

As we pushed out into the brisk, borderline Game-Of-Thrones-“winter is coming” weather, I felt a drip. Then a drop. Then a drip, drop. It was raining. Tor insists it is not raining because it says so on the iPhone’s weather app. So, no umbrella (remember when I asked if I needed to bring one?) and we were walking to the “event.” Thank God I only brought sneakers to wear, the singularly most significant achievement coming out of the feminist movement: the gradual cessation of women wearing heels.

After the cold, wet, walk that neither my weekend bag, nor my boyfriend, prepared me for, we arrived at a theatre. The York Theatre Royal to be exact. I thought, “This can’t be it. Tor hates plays.” But it was. This…was it. It didn’t dawn on me that my birthday surprise would be a Beckett play called Krapp’s Last Tape. But then, when I realized who was starring in this one-man movement about aging, regret, and lost love, I understood the assignment: Gary Oldman. The fact that his last name, Old Man, being a bonus “theme” of my turning fifty, was not lost on me.

The play was great. Gary was great. Fifty-five minutes from start to finish, very few lines, but very intense reactions to a man listening back to tapes of himself from a life long-gone and losing a love from which he would never truly recover. When the play ended, we were escorted to the green room where a few other theatre-goers sat waiting for Gary to come out. We were all to have dinner together after the show which, was kind of intimidating. A beautiful, short-haired blonde woman who had a familiar face was there with a dapper, dark, and handsome man. Both middle-aged-ish. A younger couple was there, and Gary’s wife, Gisele, who seemed to be running the entire after-show show. She was organizing the autograph line of Harry Potter sicophants which snaked around the block, making sure we were all good with drinks and such and calling ahead to the Italian restaurant down the road to adjust the head count for the evening. She did it with such grace, such ease. I determined everyone needs a “Gisele” in their lives.

While waiting for Gary, I want to preface the reasoning behind this very specific birthday “event” with how it came about.
You see, when Tor lived in L.A., he and Gary became quite close as their kids went to the same preschool. They performed in a Beatles cover band and did a few projects together cementing their relationship as, you could say, “lifelong” at this point. So, being that we were just across the pond in France, and he was doing this rare, theatrical performance (Gary hadn’t worked the stage in decades. He was “kidnapped by films” he says. If only we could all be “kidnapped” by films was my thought), Tor thought it a fun idea to make a surprise birthday event out of it given the opportunity and theme of the show itself. Truth be told, I loved it, even if I would have never asked for it.
Annnnnnd, he’s back.

By the time we finally made it to the restaurant, it’s as if we were all best friends. The saying, “There’s no people like show people” is real. Show people are more fun, more engaging, and more charming…to a point. Then, the first symptoms of my foot-in-mouth disease arose when Gary turned to me and said, “I’m sure you two know Saskia from watching Slow Horses.” Eeks. I couldn’t say, “We know her from about an hour ago when we met in the green room,” because Saskia Reeves is apparently famous. So I said, “Um…Gary, Tor and I only watched the first season when it came out…sooo…(I’m staring at Tor now to fucking help me!)… I don’t remember.” There was an awkward silence. We looked like assholes for not watching EVERY season of Slow fucking Horses, I mean, doesn’t it count that we watched Dracula? All the Harry Potters? The Darkest Hour? Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy? The fucking Professional? Ugh. Finally, Gisele broke the silence, “Lisa, it’s so great to have you here for your birthday.” “It’s so great to be here!”, I responded, but then, Gary said, “Gisele just had a birthday,” which sent me into a codependent tap dance that culminated in me saying, “Oh my gosh! Gisele! Happy birthday! We should be celebrating YOU too!”

As if on cue, there was another table next to us celebrating the birthday of a lady who was getting smashed with her two friends. Was everyone celebrating a birthday in York, England tonight?? The dapper, dark, and handsome man mentioned that he was from Jamaica which sparked Gary to talk about the two years he lived there. It was wild. His father was a sailor and when he was young, his family moved to Jamaica for two years for his father’s work. Gary got on with the Jamaican kids, was speaking fluent Patois, and then, what I took as an off-the-cuff delivery of something traumatic, said, “…you know, when your father runs off with his best friend’s wife,” to which I replied, “As fathers do.”

Annnnnnnnd…crickets.

(Above video stolen from YouTube. I had to go to extreme measures to properly depict the “crickets”)

You know that moment in Baby Reindeer where Donnie was giving that gut-wrenching “comedy” performance about getting groomed and raped by a writer/producer? THAT’s how I felt. Gary’s, doesn’t-need-a-fucking-method-because-he-IS-the-fucking-method, Shakespearean-trained gaze hit mine and its inner monologue telepathically said, “You literally just made a joke of my deepest father wound which has haunted me my whole life.” That was my inferred subtext to his actual response which was, “As fathers do? All fathers run off with their best friend’s wives, do they?” What do I do, what do I do, what do I do????!!! Help me?????!!! Tor????!!! Gisele??? I was on my own.

So I…
…LAUGHED.

Then, everyone laughed. We were all laughing, not at Gary’s pain, but because no one wanted to open the can of worms that would have turned a beautiful celebration of Gary’s return to the stage and my/Gisele’s/drunk lady-next-to-us’s birthdays into a shit show of daddy dissing. Once again…saved by the laugh.

The waiter brought me a delicious panna cotta with “Happy Birthday” written in chocolate drizzle and a single, lit candle. I wished for peace in the Middle East, then quickly blew it out. I know it will never happen which is why I feel fine revealing my wish in this essay. I mean, if Jared Kushner couldn’t fix it, no one can.

We ended the evening by walking outside for some pictures and hugs. Instead of “cheese” as Tor took our picture, he yelled, “Say ‘Happy Birthday Lisa!’”, to which I responded, “And Gisele!”, to which Gisele responded, “It’s not really my birthday anymore,” to which I asked Gary, “When is her birthday?”, to which Gary responded, “In March.” More laughter. (The picture below is the proof in the blood pudding.)

It was a wonderful night spent with wonderful people and honestly, how many people can say they celebrated their 50th with Winston Churchill, Dracula, Sid Vicious, Sirius Black, Lee Harvey Oswald, Ludwig van Beethoven, and Harry Truman, all in one night?

In Laughter,
LStL

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