What started out as a simple convention turned into my friend and me planning an impromptu visit to the theater. We got tickets to Casa Manana for two shows of A Few Good Men, the Saturday Matinee, and the Sunday evening performance.

Play Stuff: Overall, the play was excellent. The dialog was clear and distinct, the theater had no bad seats (even though we were back center), and it was a marvelous performance with minimal visual queues. The whole militaristic atmosphere was brilliantly laid out with the barbed wire fence and the hot sun that hung overhead. Military chanting kept you occupied during the minimal set changes, and the background music was never overpowering. (At least I think there was background music!) Mary and I shared binoculars for the first performance, and then for the second performance, we each had our own. (And boy, were my arms tired holding those suckers up, cause Jensen is on stage a lot!)

Fan Stuff: Watching Jensen Ackles walk on stage was an amazing jolt to the senses. There in real life, looking svelte and golden, dressed in military tan, was he. I’m not usually the star struck type, but by golly, I lost my breath at that moment. Then, because he’s so DARN talented, I got into the role he was playing and forgot about Dean Winchester. For the most part. I cannot lie, however, because I saw the Dean-ness filter through a few scenes (the furrowed brow, the wide-eyed sideways glance), but Ackles made me believe he was his current character – by force of will, by sheer talent, and that amazingly face which can communicate volumes in the slightest twitch. He seems to be an actor’s actor, who must believe in the character he is playing and does it to the hilt. He also did an amazing job supporting other characters in their scenes. Not one to just act for his own lines, when other actors were performing, he was reacting to them. All on his own, like no one might be watching him but he didn’t care, because it was just that important that he keep acting even when the spotlight wasn’t directly on him.

During the first half of the matinee, I noticed two seats up front that were empty. They stayed empty all throughout, and then, during the intermission, they remained empty. So, feeling rather ballsy, I told Mary that I would go check them out, and if she should see me waving her down, that she was to bring my purse. So, I went down, asked the ladies in the other seats if anyone was sitting there. They said no and then mentioned something about someone else having asked an usher if they could sit there and the usher had said no because “there was some significance to those chairs.” I for one believe it’s easier to get forgiveness than permission in a case like this, waved Mary down, and down we sat. My heart beat like a hammer, but we must have looked like we belonged, because no usher tried to move us. As the house lights went down for the second act, Mary said something that was all the thanks I’d ever need: “You’re good. You’re that fucking good.” (The only problem with these seats was the fact that Jensen tended to walk towards them when dressing and, um, undressing between scenes. By that I mean, taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves, which I happen to think is very sexy. Every time he did this, I had a heart attack.)

The other cool part was, at the end of the matinee, Jensen is getting a standing ovation. We’re clapping so hard, and standing, it makes me want to cheer. And I didn’t whoop or anything (making any noise to attract undue attention), but I could see Jensen clasping his hands in thanks, and then ducking his head, turning his face in our direction – with the biggest dang smile on his face. You could tell he loved it, the feedback from the crowd, and his pleasure and his own joy in doing a live performance.

After the Saturday Matinee, my friend and I waited in the Texas afternoon heat for about half an hour. Jensen Ackles came out with Lou Diamond Phillips, and we women (mostly women), around 30 of us, were so hushed and awed that none of us made a sound or moved for a full minute. Then Jensen said, “What, do we smell that bad?” Oh my. That made us laugh and whoop and we moved forward in a polite rush and waited for him to sign our programs, and to shake our hands, and to allow us to take pictures of him. There weren’t any pictures with him, but he only had so much time between performances, and would most likely have to get something to eat.

He came out looking Deanish. I must say. I must say that. He had washed a lot of the stage makeup off, his hair spiked up in the front, and he was wearing a black t-shirt and blue jeans, and, cutely, a pair of old army boots with paint splatters on them. Somehow I was right up front for a good few minutes, so I was able to get an eyeful. I remember looking down at his feet and thinking “boots.” Then I said it aloud. It was an awfully hot day, those boots must have baked his feet something fierce. And in the back of my mind, I’m thinking (I know I am), that Dean wears boots, because, being a hunter, he must always have solid footwear because he never knows where he’s going to end up. Mary says he was wearing a belt, and I believe her. I just remember thinking how nicely his jeans fit him (they hung loose, as Dean’s do), and how hot he must be in that black t-shirt. And how I adore a man in a black t-shirt. (And I wondered, did those paint spatters come from painting his own house, or that of a friend’s?)

In his right jean pocket, there was this little silver bar clipped over the outside of the pocket. It reminded me of a bookmark or a money clip. The top of it had some design, but I didn’t want to stare any harder than I already was so, I didn’t study it.

I remember watching his hands as he signed autographs, for which he came prepared with his own pen. I remember watching the muscles in his forearms work as he did this, and how kind he was to each person. How he thanked people for nice things they said. How he didn’t rush. How gracious he was about the whole thing. He could have blown us off, but he didn’t.

The back of his neck was shiny with sweat, but it was near a hundred degrees and muggy as all get out. But, it was my time to move to the back and let other women have their moment (we were all being so polite to each other), but I wanted to shake his hand before it was all over. You know? Have that second of contact? But I messed it up.

You know how you have planned in your head the nice things you want to say to someone? For Jensen Ackles, I had a list. A litany. A verbosely long paragraph, which I had whittled down to, “Your development of the character of Dean Winchester is amazingly good. Supernatural is a fantastic show – thank you for both!” I was ready. Had been ready. But…I messed it up. Oh man.

It went something like this: I knew I had to move back and away for the other fans, so I said, bold as anything, “Say, can I shake your hand? Then I’ll get out of everyone’s way.” (What the heck kind of statement is that?) So he holds out his hand for me to shake, a fan moves politely out of my way, and I move up right in front of him, and shake his hand. Then I look up, you know, to say my statement, and at the moment his eyes meet mine, I go silent. Absolutely gob smacked silent. (I keep saying to my self, even now, please tell me that didn’t just happen!) I am never at a loss for words. Never. But I was at that moment.

We shake hands. I look up into his eyes. And I wish I were making this next part up. Heck, I wish I’d written this next part myself in a story somewhere, but I swear, each and every word is absolutely true. The sunlight is in its six o’clock position, or just about, slanting down at an angle, and Jensen Ackles is lit up with an aureole of sunlight, as if Kripke himself had come down to Texas and positioned the light, and Jensen, just so. His skin is burnished golden with this light and the sun is cutting through his eyes, like a blade, making them emerald green and spiked with silver. No lie. I swear. My expression, I know, is solemn, the way it gets when I’m overwhelmed. I’m sure I look grim, as my mouth falls open in awe, even, because it’s such a serious and significant moment for me, I can’t help it. It’s a look I get that makes people I’m with look around for someone else to talk to.

And Ackles had an expression on his face that I do not think I will forget as long as I live. The green and silvered light in his eyes cuts down through the muggy air and slices into my brain. His brow furrows down, eyes slightly narrowing, in an utterly Deanish way, as if he’s only just registering how odd my statement sounds, as if he wonders why I am so intent on getting out of everyone’s way, why I’m not saying anything at all. How maybe he’s thinking, just for a second (or even a fraction of a second, because the man’s got more on his mind than one apparently pathetic fan), “Why does this woman feel as though she’s in everyone’s way? Or anyone’s way, for that matter? How sad.”

It breaks my heart to relive this particular memory, because I am a confident and self-assured person. I’m well spoken, and am not afraid to talk to anyone. And even though I am not a mind reader, sometimes you can see by someone’s expression what they think. We train ourselves to do this, do we not, to look and see and interpret what we see. Just then, as I step away from him, some confident woman says some remarkably nice comment about loving Supernatural, and my heart thuds in my stomach. I’m done for. Can only move away, in the hot sun, and try to remember how to breathe. To watch as he goes on being gracious and kind, his head bent over those autographs, his mouth moving in that soft way as he smiles, eyes sparking in the sun, skin golden…the fans moving in waves in front of him. And then comes the signal from one of his companions, it’s time to go. So Jensen makes a wave and says goodbye and we cheer him and thank him and it’s an utterly beautiful moment. Except for the fact that I have failed.

Then I have to ask myself, why on earth am I worried about what this one guy thinks of me? It’s not like I’m going to develop a relationship at all with him. I’m not in his age group, I’m not his type, I’m not in show business, I’m not even a screenwriter who might be interacting with him. He doesn’t know me from Adam. I’m just a fan, just one of many, many fans. I’m not worried about what he thinks of me, I think, as much as I’m worried about not having gotten my message across. To tell him, in no uncertain terms, how he ROCKS as Dean Winchester, and how I’ve not been so taken with a show in so long – that Supernatural ROCKS, that Sam Winchester ROCKS, and that Kripke is a genius. And to THANK him for giving me the gift of something so well done, so clever, so real, that Mary and I can talk about it for hours. And hours. How the character and the show have changed me, because the fandom I was into before was based on fear and this fandom, remarkably, is based on love. Family love, loyalty, altruism, trust, confidence, bravery – all good traits. Yeah, there’s scary monsters, but the point of Supernatural, to me, seems to be about how love will conquer all. How his love for his family, for Sam, will send Dean to make a deal with the devil. That’s sacrifice. That’s noble. And that’s an amazing example to set.

:::sigh::: So I must live with the fact that unless a miracle occurs (and I do believe in miracles), Jensen Ackles will never know what a great job he is doing on Supernatural. (Of course he knows, he must know.)

After the matinee, Mary and I go to Pappadeaux, which has a great lobster salad, which I ate some of. We called her mother to share our excitement, and we called my sister Caren to share our excitement, and then we went home to watch Supernatural and to discuss it endlessly.

Sunday night, we went to the performance again, still high, and waiting in the lobby. We were well satisfied to have met Jensen the one time, but you know, it would have been nice to meet him again. We ended up staying after the show for an hour, but he’d already gone home with his family. “Jensen has left the building!” was the announcement, and we reluctantly departed for home. (After I picked up a lucky penny I found by the back stage door!)

The fun part of all this (besides having my own binoculars during the entire performance) was the odd happenings in the lobby….I spotted an older man who looked like Jensen, and then, I realized, somehow, that I was looking at his dad. And his mom. And his grandma, all well-groomed and attired, and looking justifiably proud. You know, I have no confirm of this, I took no pictures (thought that would be rude), but as I snuck glances at them (they were standing right by the bench we were sitting on), I grew more and more convinced of the fact that this was Jensen’s family.

So then, I’m looking around the lobby, trying not to stare at his mom and dad, when I notice this very tall, lean, dark haired gentleman. He’s looking around and laughing, and then he smiles and I notice his teeth. (I’m way into teeth.) They are…remarkable teeth, such as Jared has got and I realize, as I take in the shape of his face, the tallness, the stance, that I’m looking at his brother. Or his doppelganger. I nudge Mary and I tell her who I think it is and we stare. Oh yes, for a full on minute, we stare. Then we look at each other and giggle. At some later point, this individual comes over to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Ackles, and I’m not eavesdropping, I swear it, but I’m sitting right there, and as he starts talking and mentions Jared and Jensen, and the tone is so…. Padalecki that I’m convinced it’s his brother.

Then Mary, at some later point, points out a young man and says, “There’s Jensen’s brother.” So I stare. Just for a minute. Yep. I concur that either it’s a doppelganger, or it’s an Ackles. He’s got the same sweet mouth and open expression and as he walks away, his walk is like Jensen’s. Later, as we left the theater to go to the stage door, we notice this potential relation of Jensen’s waiting by the front door, and it crosses my mind that he’s in the wrong place. Later, Mary and I realize that the Ackles company must have waited till we were all distracted out the back way, and then scooted out the front. (Can’t say as I blame them, we were a slightly more rowdy group of about 50 people Sunday night, and in the darkness were a little more bold with our laughter.) So while I cannot confirm any of this, I feel reasonably confident that I saw who I think I saw.

The whole weekend wiped me out. The anxiety of wanting to meet someone famous is, for me at least, very draining. I say “wanting to meet,” is draining, because I’ve met famous people before, and they are just people, either polite or rude, interesting or boring. It’s the wanting that drains me, even though I figure I’m beyond all that. This interlude has proven to me that I’m not all grown up inside, and sometimes, to coin a phrase, I simply can’t handle the reality. The whole actor v character thing (which I thought I had fully under control!) got way out of hand. I’ll work on it. And keep working on it, so that when the miracle occurs, I can shake his hand and say to Jensen, “Well done, and thank you!”

(This was originally posted on my LJ on 6/13/2007)