Meeting Jack Taylor
Yesterday, the family went up to Beverly Hills to visit one of my wife’s friends who was exhibiting at an art festival. While returning to our car, I noticed a sign across the street. Jack Taylor.
I nudged my wife and said, “That’s Jack Taylor’s store. The one we saw the documentary on a few months back.” I posted about it a while ago. She kind of remembered, but not clearly. We crossed the street and walked by the store, gazing in the windows. The store seemed smaller than in the movie (I think they moved) but there were bolts of shirting fabric against the window. Then as we kept walking, there was Jack, sitting with one of his employees, looking across the street at the art festival. I whispered to my wife, “That’s Jack!”
My wife, who is in public relations and whose job demands that she go up to strangers and talk to them on behalf of her clients, said, “Let’s go in and ask for a picture.” Since I’m way to chicken, I said no, I feel stupid asking famous people for autographs or pictures. As usual, my wife didn’t listen to me and dragged me and our son in. She went in first and chatted them up, politely asking if Jack wouldn’t mind taking a picture with her husband. Jack was very gracious and said sure. My son and I went in and Jack asked me where I wanted to take the picture. I didn’t want to impose, but Jack said let’s take the picture by his desk. He got up and sat on the edge of his desk. He asked if I wanted him to hold our son in his lap, but thinking about our wiggly son in Jack lap, whose in his ninties, terrified me and I politely declined. My wife took a few shots, and this is my favorite:
My wife and I thanked Jack and shook his hand. My wife joked that we wished we could afford to shop there, and Jack joked to come back and he’ll give us a 10% discount. The whole encounter couldn’t have taken more than 5 minutes, but I’ll remember it forever.
Oh, and while I may have called him Jack in this post, in reality, I was saying “Mr. Taylor” the whole time.