From August 2022 to August 2023 I worked part-time as a grocery stocker at the Middlebury Natural Foods Co-op in Vermont. It was a physically demanding job, especially for someone my age (I turned 68 in May of '23), but for the most part I enjoyed the work and the people I worked with. I even liked most of the customers, who, as Vermonters, were evidently required by law to be unnervingly pleasant.
Two such customers were the film actors Maggie Gyllenhaal and Peter Sarsgaard, a couple who, besides having double "a's" in their surnames, owned a vacation home just up the hill from Middlebury. So, at certain times of the year, they were frequent shoppers at the co-op.
I first met them one day when I was grabbing some cereal backstock from the shelves above the beer aisle, which was situated directly across from the deli bar. "Would you happen to know where I could find the raspberry vinaigrette dressing you used to have here?" said a voice from behind me.
Unsure of whom the voice was directed toward, I turned around...and there, standing directly in front of me now, was a woman whose eyes would be unmistakable in any situation, in any location in the known universe: Maggie Gyllenhaal.
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| Maggie Gyllenhaal |
I was so startled, all I could think of to say was, "I know you!" Which of course I didn't, but...I knew those eyes...that face...that voice...from all the movies I'd seen her in. "I've seen several of your movies and liked 'em all," I blurted. "And coincidentally, just last night my wife and I watched your brother Jake in The Day After Tomorrow."
Her brother? What did he have to do with this conversation? Was I a total idiot? (Don't answer that.) And oh, by the way, what movies had I seen Ms. Gyllenhaal in? Umm...hold on a minute...
Oh, yeah: A Dangerous Woman, Donnie Darko, Secretary, Adaptation, Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, Mona Lisa Smile, World Trade Center, White House Down, The Honorable Woman, The Kindergarten Teacher...and maybe a few others I can't recall. In fact, I couldn't recall most of these until just now, when I looked up Ms. Gyllenhaal's bio on IMDB. But in that moment when her eyes met mine, I recognized her instantly.
(Yeah, yeah, I know: she was also in Dark Knight and a bunch of other awesome films that I haven't yet seen. Just give me some time, OK?)
"Um, so, uh..." I stammered, "you're looking for the raspberry vinaigrette?"
She nodded.
"Um, there might be some bottles of it back in the cooler in the produce section," I offered.
"No," she replied, smiling her gazillion-watt smile, "I need to put some on my salad for lunch." And then she abruptly turned away from me and said, "Never mind; I'll ask someone here in the deli."
I wasn't sure what to make of this. We were getting along so well, and she gives me the cold shoulder! Had I said the wrong thing? Did my leering make her uncomfortable? Was there garlic in my scrambled eggs this morning? Or was she just being polite and trying not to bother me with questions I couldn't answer?
Then I noticed another famous person standing off to the side, watching the saga of the movie star and the blithering idiot unfold. It was Peter Sarsgaard. Standing next to him were two teenage girls—his and Ms. Gyllenhaal's daughters, perhaps?
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| Peter Sarsgaard |
Having totally blown my chance to have a meaningful conversation with Ms. Gyllenhaal, I bravely decided to risk a similar debacle with Mr. Sarsgaard. So I strode up to him and said, as nonchalantly as I could, "I've seen most of your movies [an unwitting lie, as it turns out], but my favorite is Dopesick. I thought you were really good in that." I wish I'd had the presence of mind to add, "I also liked that your name in Dopesick was Rick," but it's probably best that I just shut the hell up at this point.
To my surprise, Mr. Sarsgaard smiled broadly and replied, "Oh, thanks a lot for saying so! Yeah, it was nice to do something substantial and meaningful for a change, and not just entertainment. In fact, before Dopesick I worked on a documentary about the opioid problem, so it was kind of a natural tie-in."
"Oh, really?" I said, "I'll have to check that out. Well, I'd better let you get back to your shopping."
"Yeah, nice chatting with you, man," he said, making me feel just a bit taller than I'd felt a moment ago.
At this point, Ms. Gyllenhaal had apparently gotten what she needed from the folks in the deli, and she was now checking out the meat cooler. Knowing that she had been a participant (and award recipient) in the previous summer's Middlebury New Filmmakers Festival, I asked if she was going to be a part of it again this year.
"Oh, maybe," she replied with a smile. "I hear Alexander Payne is going to be there, and he would be fun to see. Are you going?"
Whoa. Maggie Gyllenhaal asked me a question. Did the Earth's poles just switch places or something?
"Oh, cool," I replied, despite the fact that I had no idea who Alexander Payne was. "I plan to attend most of the festival, so maybe I'll see you there?" In reality, I had no solid plans to attend the festival—just the desire. Also, Jules and I were talking about moving back to Oregon, so it wasn't certain that we would even be in Middlebury in late August when the festival was scheduled to happen.
At this point, Ms. Gyllenhaal turned to her eldest daughter, who looked to be about 14, and asked her to go find something for her. Her daughter then turned to me and asked, "Do you know where the rosewater is?"
"I think I can help you find that," I said, which was literally true, since I was only kind of sure where it was. As I was leading her toward the "international aisle," I said to her, "It must drive you crazy having people thronging your parents everywhere you go."
"No, it's not so bad," she replied with a smile.
Maybe not in Vermont, I thought, knowing how Vermonters tend to value their privacy and respect others' privacy equally. Or maybe not anywhere else, for that matter, since Ms. Gyllenhaal and Mr. Sarsgaard aren't mega-stars, and aren't readily recognizable to many.
We located the rosewater, she said thanks, and that was the last I saw of the family—until a couple of weeks later, when I spotted Ms. Gyllenhaal standing in front of the bread display, looking forlorn.
"Let me know if there's anything I can help you with," I offered.
"Oh, hi," she replied, smiling, apparently having actually recognized me from our previous encounter (yet another ego boost). I was determined not to be quite so awkward this time, if at all possible. "Can you tell me when this bread is going to be restocked?" she asked, pointing to an empty space on the shelf.
"Sure, let me go check with the bread person and get back to you." I walked briskly, but not too obviously briskly, over to the deli, where the bread person was working, got the needed information, and walked briskly, but not too briskly, back to where Ms. Gyllenhaal was still standing. "It'll be here on Tuesday around 10 a.m.," I informed her, with an absurdly exaggerated sense of pride and gratification.
"Oh, great—thanks," she said, smiling.
My day was made.
A couple of weeks later, I spotted Ms. Gyllenhaal in the produce section, said hello, and kept walking as nonchalantly as I could so as to reduce the chances that she would take out a restraining order on me. A few minutes later, while I was working in the breakfast aisle, she came up to me and asked, "Do you know where I might find the marshmallows?"
Marshmallows? I thought. She eats marshmallows and looks like that? Just kidding. I started to think that, but then stopped myself when I remembered that she and Mr. Sarsgaard had two kids. But yeah, maybe they all ate marshmallows and still looked like that, who knows?
"Right over here," I pointed. "Top shelf, totally hidden so no one can find 'em."
"Oh, thanks," she said, graciously smiling at my attempt at humor.
Trying to come up with some more small talk to keep the conversation going, I asked her, "Have you been affected by the flooding where you are?" (Pretty much the entire state of Vermont had been deluged that summer—30 inches of rain over a span of three months.)
"No," she replied, grabbing a bag of marshmallows. "We're up pretty high in Ripton, so it hasn't been too bad. But a neighbor's house, which was downhill from a clearcut, was washed down the hill."
"Yikes," I said. "Well, glad to hear you were safe. Have you had any trouble getting into town and back?" I was shamelessly milking this conversation for all it was worth, while trying to appear not to be milking the conversation.
Nevertheless, Ms. Gyllenhaal managed to conceal her undoubtedly rabid indignation by replying kindly, "Yeah, Highway 125 was flooded out for a couple of days, but it's open now. How about you? Any flooding where you live?"
Whoa again. This famous person, this well-known and beloved actress who owed nobody anything except perhaps her parents and children, was actually giving me, an unknown and, on a good day, maybe beliked grocery stocker at the local food co-op, the proverbial time of day.
I was in shock. But I had to haul myself out of my shock and say something, so I replied, "Uh, do you know where the Marble Works condos are, down by the falls?"
"Oh, yeah...I think so."
"My wife and I are renting a condo there, and so far the flooding hasn't affected us, either. Knock on...marble?" (OK, I made that last silly bit up, but you know how in retrospect you always come up with things you wish you'd said? Yeah, that's me. Every. Single. Time.) And then I added, for some unknown reason, "But we just learned that our daughter in Oregon is sick, so we're planning to move back there at the end of August."
"Oh, sorry to hear about your daughter," she replied, with a look of genuine concern. "But Oregon is beautiful."
"You've been there?"
"Yes, many times. I love it." What was she doing in Oregon, of all places? Making a movie, perhaps? I later Googled "Maggie Gyllenhaal movies made in Oregon," but the results were inconclusive.
"I lived there most of my life before we moved here two years ago," I replied. "We were hoping to find a place to buy here, but didn't have any luck." Sensing that I had now not only overshared but also overstayed my welcome, I said, "Well, it was very nice meeting you and talking to you. Have a good day, and maybe our paths will cross again before I leave."
"Yes, nice meeting you too," she said. "Take care."
Near the end of August, two days before I was set to move, our paths did cross once more—in the same spot where we had originally met: the deli. This time, however, we were both shopping. So, a level playing field, of sorts (ha ha).
"Well, hello there," I ventured. "I'm off to Oregon in two days."
"Oh, really? Well, the best of luck to you."
No worries on that score: I felt like I'd already had the best of luck.
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