Jack wants to be Ethan Hawke, has since we saw Reality Bites when we were 12, after Nicki asked us for recommendations for a Saturday sleepover we thought we’d be invited to, or I was sure. Naively sure, the way I entered each of my first eight relationships. Instead, Monday morning in Geography, Vicky and Cherry and Jo relayed how shit the film was. They’d never been more bored. My gut tore, and I wondered if my legs would work later. But they worked when the bell went, because betrayal’s not a cancer or fatal sickness, although both those betray you, betray me right now.
So Jack and I hired it, the one copy from Flicks, the store we got before Blockbuster, or iTunes, or illegal downloads, and we put it on our Dad’s card before we had our own cards, when they never even asked for digits, or proof, or telephone numbers. Or ID. And I get asked for ID now, 15 years on, and sense isn’t a self-filled bucket that’s topped up.
And we saw Before Sunrise, Sunset, him seduce Angelina before Brad did, pretend to be Jude Law in Gattaca and we read him wondering if he’d read us and we watched every thing that he crafted, when he played his own dad in the film of the book and Jack never got over and I never could get.
And once he evolves, knows every crease, repetition, ex-wife, I’ll learn every Winona Ryder line, imply that I made him the man that he is the space of an 80 minute film that Jo hates, a Smash Hits’ recommend that Kim didn’t like. But we.