A day with Ryan Gosling
✥ ✥ ✥
With my lifestyle getting in the way of my sleep, I have decided to forego an invitation to a Friday night gettogether, in order to stay in and make platonic love to my pillow. Well after midnight, as I was undressing a perfect ten model, the phone started ringing with obnoxious pace urging me to abandon my softcore dream.
“Hello?” was all I managed to muster before “Dude, don’t tell me you’re asleep? Get up! I’m landing in Toronto in half-hour, come pick me up at the airport” was assertively told to me on the other end of the wireless connection. Before I even processed the words, I realized it was Ryan, who was sober, calling me at four forty-three on a Saturday morning. “Can’t you afford a cab?” I proclaimed sarcastically. “We have a big day ahead of us buddy, put on your panties and drive…”
I slid off from the bed and went into the bathroom to shower and prepare myself. Without even grabbing a cup of coffee I was on my way on the four-o-one. As I was approaching the YYZ, the phone rang again with instructions to park the car and come to the thirty-third column. Doing just that, I wobbled to the designated to me by Ryan place to find him, loading up his Louis Vuitton luggage into a trunk of a limo, while lifting each bag with one fully outstretched arm over his head before putting it down because he likes to squeeze in a workout whenever he can.
“What are you doing?” I asked visibly irritated. “We’re taking the limo” Ryan replied wearing a white short-sleeved v-neck and white Wayfarers. “Couldn’t you just pick me up from home?” I said condescendingly. “I just decided right now” he answered, “stop being such a fucking cry-baby and get into the car!” To be fair, I figured that I was whining a lot, so I obliged and jumped in. “Hazelton” was the reply given by Ryan to the “Where to?” question posed by the driver. “We’re going to drop off my things and then we’ll get some breakfast, how the fuck have you been man?!”
As the car drove off into the misty haze, Ryan popped open a bottle of champagne at five-thirty in the morning no less; we started catching up. I felt lightheaded and couldn’t believe the energy he possessed, to my question of when does he sleep, he stated “Sleep is for the weak.” We were approaching the empty downtown streets without wasting a second in silence. He told me of his upcoming film roles, what he was considering and I told him that I’ve decided to become a writer because I couldn’t find any other way of dealing with myself. Invariably the female question popped up to which I melancholically sang:
“If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.”
“Amen to that!” as though with pride proclaimed Mr. Gosling and we cheered. The bottle was finished. We’ve made it to the lobby before he had to sign the first autograph of the day. He instructed me and the concierge to go to the second floor, where he has booked an executive suite for an undetermined amount of time. He meanwhile, navigated himself down to the kitchen in order to talk to the chef into making a fairly specific meal, breakfast after all, is important.
Without even thinking anything of it, Ryan set himself up on the kitchen floor after putting on the apron and began assembling the food and utensils around with artistic precision. It was a sight to behold, when immediately the restaurant’s chefs became assistants to the process. Before I was able to fully establish the order of deeds I had to complete upon my entering of the room, in comes Gosling, accompanied by several members of the hotel staff carrying silver trays. After feasting on this health-first custom buffet, Ryan began pushing me to go to the gym – I obviously didn’t budge, citing that “I am not an enemy to my own health,” deciding on taking a prolonged nap instead.
A rude awakening came upon me from Ryan’s voice in full falsetto mode, piercing the air with the words “Come together! Right now! Over me!” accompanied by the legendary basslines shaking the room’s walls to the core. The clock indicated that we were deep in the afternoon times, and with a throbbing headache, I blew my vocal chords out screaming “Fuck McCartney!” at the top of my lungs. I hid my head under a pillow. My words must’ve been heard, since Mr. Gosling burst into the room almost instantaneously, carrying the Abbey Road vinyl in his hands, demanding that I apologize for my “insensitive remarks.” He then proceeded onto a twenty-four-minute lecture on why I cannot consider myself a fan of music or a decent human being in general, if I don’t allocate the proper respect to the boys from Liverpool.
After being thoroughly chastised, Ryan notified me of our plans for the evening, which consisted of nothing extraordinary: dinner and barhopping. But before dinner, there was a Japanese-inspired lunch, which was already served. Sitting in a robe, after a few shots of sake and a couple of pills of Advil, I’ve realized that I needed to pick up an evening attire from home, to which Ryan replied that there was no need for that, since he gave the current clothes I had to “a girl,” who’ll use them to “pick something out for me.” He’s a very considerate man.
After a few maki rolls, I rolled myself into the shower. As I came out wearing only a towel, Ryan was strutting around purposefully and topless with, naturally, three girls sitting on the couches, observing his every move and drinking wine. As if they needed some more lubrication, Ryan was passionately talking about the rainforest and how deeply it affects him that we’re not doing enough to preserve it. He then introduced me to the ladies and suggested I write down the words he’s saying for an article to be released in the foreseeable future. Holding the towel in place with one hand, I told him and the audience that “I’ll get on it right away; as soon as I put on a pair of socks.”
On the bed in my room I found several bags with designer logos. Everything fit like a charm, and within five minutes I was sporting eloquently-stitched Italian black suit atop of a white dress shirt. Even a pair of uncomfortable yet top of the line shoes was provided. I liked the reflection in the mirror and considering the status and caliber of my wingman, the odds were most definitely in my favor for quite literally, anything I desired. I came back to the main room where the girls were sitting just as attentive, as Ryan, now, walking around with the bottle of wine and pouring their glasses full, was talking about Pavarotti, and how his voice fully captures the scope of Mr. Gosling’s being.
We sat and socialized for hours, with yours truly even managing to squeeze in a couple of notes of insight and perverted humor. Ryan and me were drinking scotch on the rocks, cheering everyone and toasting to “good friends.” One of the girls turned out to be a grad student, whose aspirations included working in Toronto’s Children’s Hospital, to which Ryan applauded, saluted and offered his help and advice, while still, of course, remaining shirtless.
It was time to head out. The buzz was upon everyone, and we began laughing and hugging in an ensemble, trying to walk out properly to the carriage awaiting us outside. It was important to take the limo on a three-minute drive, because as Ryan noted “ladies shouldn’t be walking prolonged distances in heels.” The dinner was hazy, so was the first and second bar we’ve attended. Moment of clarity arrived after midnight when Ryan was signing tits and I found myself swapping spit with the aspiring doctor. Things were beginning to get out of hand and after a few glancing exchanges between him and I, we’ve decided to take the debauchery back to the confines of the hotel room.
Despite having plenty of requests to join us, we’ve left the final destination with the original cast – loyalty after all, is very important. Never realized that within a proper setting, Beatles would actually make great party music. Everything started to get blurry and the last things I recall were Ryan blasting open several bottles of champagne, a yellow submarine, and black bra straps sliding down from the bare soft shoulders of a silhouette sitting atop of me, contours of which are drawn out by the pale moonlight coming through the windows.
✥ ✥ ✥
“Wake, wake up! Time to go!”
Before reclaiming anything remotely close to a conscious state of mind, I glanced over to find my doctor on the side of the bed in a deep, thorough sleep – the embodiment of innocence.
“What? Now?!” I exclaimed in a raspy gloat. Of course now, I knew the answer and started scrambling around in search of clothes to put on. Best I managed before running out the door was pajama pants, the white dress shirt and white slippers with the hotel insignia on them, put on my bare feet. He took the stairs and I followed suit. Before reaching the staircase, I realized I forgot vital items in the room, the bottle of Jameson and the bottle of Dom, which naturally meant I would run back to grab ‘em.
Nearly falling at every step I rushed outside to find the limo already waiting and Ryan hurrying me over. The clock read four forty-three, and I couldn’t help but smile at the irony. “Where are we going?” I asked and again realized that I knew the answer very well. We rode in absolute silence, sipping onto the nectars of the Irish and French ancestry. We passed many blocks and I lost track of where precisely we were when Ryan called out the driver to stop the car.
“You see the house? Every time I am in Toronto I drive by it at least once.” I leaned over and glanced at the older looking building. Uncorking the bottle and taking a sip, I comradely passed it over to him. “I think you should go, knock on the door and say hello.” I said with more conviction than ever before in my life. “Are you fucking nuts?” He almost laughed and handed the bottle back to me. “If she doesn’t know how you feel right this minute,” I went on, “what can you possibly expect from her?” I was always good at giving others advice, my only wish in life remains to be able to follow my own words of wisdom myself. “She deserves to know, and you deserve the opportunity to say these words, right now.”
There was no reply, he took two massive gulps of champagne and told the driver to go, while giving a sorrowful squinting stare to the house that was slowly dissolving amidst the milky fog that embraced the streets. We drove in silence again and I felt that we needed some air. I suggested we go for a walk, Ryan agreed, and so we told the chauffeur to get us to Harbourfront where we exited and went limping onto the boardwalk. The water sent a needle-like breeze to the shore with my pajama pants and slippers surprisingly failing to provide adequate insulation.
“Release the wave, let it, wash over me…”
“What song is that?” Ryan asked. “Tears of the dragon.” I replied feeling almost unapologetically sober from the cold wind and mist. We kept on walking the empty pathway, each with a gloomy hapless look on the face, wishing for some soul-soothing remedy to numb the emotions that have spurred to the surface and are begging to be unleashed. “So what exactly happened?” I reluctantly broke the silence. “I fucked up.” Never has such a vague and cliché phrase so thoroughly described the demise of a loving relationship.
I started drinking more intensely as we reached the boat plateau. As luck would have it, there was an owner musing in and around his ship. Five hundred Canadian rubles later, he drove us off into the calm waters of the lake.
“And what about you? What’s stopping you from being happy?” In response, I looked at the barely visible skyline of the city and blamed the gushing winds for the small liquid discharge that appeared at the front of my retinas. “Myself” Was the only answer I could come up with, yet never managing to say it aloud.
We kept on drinking.
“Boys, do you mind if we head back?” Our captain asked us with a sincere tone. “Sail away, monsieur!” I yelled in return. “Let’s sail some more!” Ryan opposed, yet despite being a man who rarely hears ‘no’, he knew that it was time to go ashore if we didn’t want to ascend or descend into the afterlife due to hypothermia. “Never realized how beautiful this city is” I said, as the boat rolled towards the foggy shores.
The sun was now rising and the water reflected its pulsing colors off its rolling waves that in turn, were pushing the fog away into a distant broken memory. We hugged and thanked the sailor, drinking a round in process and were off on our way, walking up York Street toward the place of our residence for these decadent days. Sun was coming out in all its glory and here was a couple of guys walking around with bottles in their hands, a movie star and an unknown fellow whose wardrobe suggested a mental asylum escape in the not too distant past. A few early morning heads were turned.
We quietly got into the hotel room and closed the blinds, as neither of us was ready to welcome our star’s beaming and enlightening rays. After another shot I slipped away to the bedroom to write these words down, in order to let you know that I’ve been frightfully busy but nevertheless, have thought about you every minute.
The girls are all sound asleep; Ryan is watching Casablanca and eating sushi while I, leaning back into a chair, keep struggling to comprehend how after all that has transpired, my slippers managed to remain so perfectly clean.