Traveling With My Remote v.1: London

Brittany Frederick – Staff Writer
brittanyfrederick@thetwocentscorp.com

I came to London as a fan, to see John Barrowman in a play. I left London with a piece filled that I didn’t know was missing, and reminded of why he is also one of my heroes.

Not to mention, I saw a Dalek and a TARDIS, my head is still floating over Northern China, and I spent three hours trapped on a tour bus. But it was all worth it for those two minutes.

I’m not in the habit of putting actors on pedestals; I’ve had the opportunity to meet quite a few over the years, and they’ve been all very wonderful people, but you never know. It’s all too easy to forget they are nothing like the roles they play, or even the public image that they present. John is the exception to that rule because of many things, foremost of which that he is one of the most genuine people I’ve gotten to meet, and always capable of putting a smile on my face. That’s a combination I haven’t had in my life in eight years, not since the loss of my childhood friend, also ironically named John.

His name was John Machado, and we grew up together just around the corner from each other. We saw each other every day. He was my first best friend. He was the first person who became convinced I was going to be famous someday. He was my innocence, my optimism. And on October 19, 2001, he was killed in a reckless driving accident at the age of fifteen.

I took it unbelievably hard, as he was both close to me and the first person I had ever lost in my life. Not helping matters was the fact that I was left to largely go the mourning process alone. I fell to pieces, going through self-loathing, sleep deprivation, nightmares and a deep depression. Several years later, I was retroactively diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. As it turned out, he would only be the first to fall. Starting with John and ending with my other friend Michael earlier this year, all the friends I had as a child have passed, none of them making it near thirty. Leaving me – the one who was supposed to have died not long after birth – as the sole survivor. Needless to say, that threw me for a loop, and another fit of self-loathing and depression as I wondered why it was me and not them. And that was when John Barrowman came to the metaphorical rescue.

While I was having this crisis of conscience and faith, I was also starting to read John’s first autobiography, Anything Goes. Reading about the challenges he faced and experiences he went through, and appreciating his pride in himself, I realized that I likewise needed to embrace myself and learn to love myself again. I found a pride in myself that I didn’t think was left in me, and I knew just who to thank for that.

I met John at the San Diego Comic-Con in July, started trying to explain the whole thing to him…and then somewhere between getting caught up in the angst of it and the nervousness of “oh my God, John Barrowman is looking at me” (if you’re a fan, you understand), I…forgot the English language. I fumbled through the rest of my words and left kicking myself. I’d just met one of my heroes and I had just blown it. Surprisingly, this continued to actually bother me for months, all the way through my flying out to see John in concert at the Arundel Festival in August, and continued to do so even when I managed to land top seats to his run in La Cage Aux Folles. One of my friends and fellow fans confided that John normally did meet his fans at the stage door after the show and suggested that I should try it.

“Um, what?” I said. “You can’t be serious. It’ll be a mob scene and I’ll embarrass myself. Again.”

And yet, I had a gut instinct that told me I just had to go, to see John on stage. That it was something I needed to do. So I went.

I went and bought as many Doctor Who novels as I could fit in my luggage. I found the elusive set of Torchwood playing cards to complete my collection. I survived the BBC Television Centre tour while mugging with a spare TARDIS. I managed not to squeal too loudly when I was five feet from John Simm and Lucy Cohu during an expertly done production of Speaking In Tongues. But through all of that, part of my mind was always on Monday.

I’ve never been good with October 19 since that fateful day. I’ve spent it depressed, still in pain for the friend I lost and everything in me that died with him. Maybe I never coped properly, but it’s always been the norm that I spend that day falling to pieces again.

So once again, it was John Barrowman to the rescue.

His performance in La Cage was masterful, and I had a literally front-row seat to it; at several points he was practically right next to me, and at one point looking right at me, which caused my stomach to flutter repeatedly like a sixteen-year-old girl. He can act, he can sing, he can dance, and he looks better in drag than most natural women I know. I was laughing so hard between the show and the occasional miscue that I was crying. Everyone just seemed to be having an amazing time – which included me, my father (getting accosted by a Cagelle, no less), my old friend Fiona, and my new friend Kelly, who was, like me, staring stupidly at the sight of John. We were at one point total strangers, brought together on one night and made friends because of our mutual admiration for someone who absolutely deserves all of it.

It was Kelly who convinced me to give the stage door a go, so I took my nerves and my cross to bear and went to wait out there with her and Fiona, only praying that this time I wouldn’t screw up.
And then…it happened.

I had my moment. And this time, I actually managed to form coherent sentences. While apologizing for the last time. John, of course, good-naturedly brushed all this off and told me not to worry about it. I did manage this time to tell him how much I really did respect him, when I wasn’t utterly flustered. I like to think this time, I managed to come off well. Certainly not that memorable – not with all the people he must meet and how unremarkable I am; I’m sure he’ll have forgotten me by now – but that wasn’t the point. The point was getting that cross off my back. Knowing I’d said a proper thank-you that the man deserved for pulling me out of a pretty dark place.

That’s the beautiful thing about this business. The people who say it’s just a movie, or a TV show, or a play can’t possibly understand. They don’t get how you can be emotionally moved by someone else’s creativity and passion. Or how you can discover someone who can change your life, whether they know it or not. John changed my life, and I’d love to buy him a drink sometime and explain it, but knowing that will never happen I’m content to say that we met again on that street corner Monday night and that he knows now I’m not just an utter idiot. It gave me closure, and that’s something else I have to thank him for.

The four of us walked down to the subway station together, where we all eventually went our separate ways. I think – at least I hope – that we’ll all see each other again someday. After all, John has a concert tour coming up presumably…

I came to a realization as I sat on the subway heading back to my hotel, one that left me speechless for a moment. For the first time in eight years, I had actually been happy on October 19th. I hadn’t gone to pieces or hid from the world. I had spent time with my friends, seen an amazing show, been up close and personal however briefly with a hero. I was at peace. And that was worth the fourteen-hour plane flight, the pulled muscle I’d been gingerly nursing for two days, and all the effort. My demons had been put down. Just like he had by writing that book I’d read all those months before, John had by his performance and presence healed that broken piece of my heart. I left a better person because of him.

That just gives me one more thing to thank him for, if I’m ever lucky to meet him again. Third time’s the charm, isn’t it?