I saw Neo
Thursday, June 04, 2009, 7:16 PM

I got a call today at work.

"Kepthsiturioueorsermlsjfluaek-sknnfn-showroom."

Um, what?

"What?" I asked.

"Keanu Reeves is in the showroom."

"No! No way! You're kidding, right? Our showroom? Right now? Upstairs?"

"Yep."

"I'll be right there!"

click



So me and my feet-dragging posse made like greased lightning for floor six. I broke into a sweat before we hit the elevator. Anybody who knows me knows that Keanu Reeves is my all-time favorite celebrity. I've had a crush on him since 1989 and Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. Wyld Stallions rule!

"Your camera!" T said.

I paused briefly, head all aslosh. Oh, Great Googly-Moogly, I can't be bothered to go back for my camera! Besides that, I'd just feel too frickawful pointing a camera at Keanu Reeves. It just seems so...impolite, kwim?

"No can do. Letsgo."

We work in a building that's like a shopping mall of showrooms which cater to designers for the rich and famous. Celebrities often visit the building, but all I've seen is the back of Sandra Bullock's head.

"You look nervous," T said.

"I do?"

Well, crap, if I don't faint on the spot, I'm going to take a crap when I get an eyeful of Keanu Reeves.

First thing we heard once we hit the showroom entrance: "You guys here to see Keanu Reeves?"

Yeah, that'd be us. (Normally they keep us chained to our desk in cages on the first floor, back in a corner.)

"He just left," S said.

He what?

"It wasn't him," H said.

"Where'd he go?" I asked.

Notice how I didn't factor in H's comment? Bah!

"Fifth floor. He just went down those stairs."

"It wasn't him?" T asked.

"Yes, it was," S said. "I admit I was wrong about Paris Hilton, but I know I'm right about Keanu Reeves. He stepped right up to my desk and said excuse me."

"It wasn't him," H says again.

"He's wearing a sweater and has long hair," S said.

I whip around and rip-roar down the stairs, posse lagging behind again. I have no idea what I'm going to do when I find him, but I have no intention of actually approaching him. I know Keanu is private. And I don't want to be a pest to my future husband.

Just go with me here.

G takes the right side of the hallway, T scopes out what's ahead of us, and I take the left. But G's looking at me. And, well, I must've been looking her way, too. Can't trust anybody. I was trying to see everything at once and not seeing a damn thing, actually.

"Keep your eyes on the windows, woman! Sweater. Long hair. Keanu."

We get to the end of the hallway where the escalators are. No sign of Keanu. Not much sign of anyone, actually. I hang over the edge of the railing to see if I can see Keanu riding down the stairs.

Nothing.

Meanwhile, G has wandered off to admire the shiny lights in the showroom behind us.

"I found him," she said.

Oh crap! Yaay! Crap, crap, crap!

My pulse is doing the funky chicken. "Where?"

She points. It's the back of a guy's head. (Oh damn, not the back of the head thing again.) Dark wavy hair almost to the shoulders. White shirt sticking out underneath a white sweater. No butt. Skinny legs.

Looks too skinny to be Keanu, methinks.

"Is it him?" T asks.

The man is in the showroom talking to a blond lady carrying bags. His designer, probably. He's behind glass and the lights are making it hard to get a good glimpse. Besides, I can't tell if it's him from the back of his head.

I keep looking.

"Don't be obvious about it," T says.

Which is like asking a guard dog not to bark at a stranger. Can't be done, but I try. While I'm trying not to be obvious about gawking, the guy turns and sees us, then turns back around.

"Is it him?" G asks.

Can't tell, can't tell.

"Take a walk over there," T says.

But she just told me not to be obvious!

"Pretend you have to go to the restroom."

(There's a restroom just past the showroom we're not-being-too-obvious about gawking at.)

I'm working on nothing but adrenalin at this point.

I stroll past. He keeps his back to the glass. I think he can feel the hawt heat of my stare. On my second pass, he turns just enough and we trade glances.

He looks haunted. His face is pale, his eyes are dark, and his hair is unkempt. And I'm trading glances with Keanu Reeves.

The edge of my sight is going gray and my head is going wee, wee, wee, and I friggen pass out. Next thing I know, T is slapping my face.

"Nine-one-one," G says.

Okay, I'm kidding. I didn't pass out. But the haunted look on Keanu's face has weirded me out and I'm all chicken sh*t now. Gotta go, gotta go.

We make our way back down the hallway. Keanu's following us! I glance back and meet his eyes again!

He wants to meet me.

Okay, fine. He doesn't. We're never going to get married at this rate, but I'd settle for a lingering hug. A french kiss, maybe? Handshake?

D. None of the above.

And that was it. The next time I glanced behind us, he was gone. Disappeared into one of the showrooms.

Real. Excitement.

My body was at fever pitch temperature for the next hour.

I saw Neo.

Finally, my one-and-only celebrity sighting record of being stepped on by Rebecca De Mornay's a-hole boyfriend at LAX has been broken. By none other than Keanu Hotstuff Reeves.

21 Did the Unhingey Jiggy Engage in Unhingenosity
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