Free Man Up! by Ross Mathews

Norman Rockwellian hometown, you can bet your bottom dollar I was going to be there. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. It was a no-freakin’-brainer!
    I was only fifteen and couldn’t drive, so I convinced one of my best girlfriends to join me. Molly was one year my senior and the proud owner of not only a driver’s license and the new Rachel haircut, but a gleaming white Geo Prizm—complete with one of those fancy new CD players —​that her parents gave her when she turned sixteen (jealous!).
    We sang TLC’s “Waterfalls” at the top of our lungs all the way down to Seattle. Once there, we waited in line for—no joke—three hours, spending every second planning exactly what I should say to Tiffani-Amber Thiessen when I finally reached the front of the line.
    “It’s important for me,” I told Molly, slowly drawing out each word to fully illustrate just how much thought I’d put into all of this, “that I let Ms. Thiessen know”—pensive pause, hand on heart—“ how her work has touched me. I don’t want her to just”—dramatic sigh—“ get that I care, I want her to get”—looking up as if searching the heavens for just the right word—“ why she made me care.” Tilt head to one side. “You know what I mean?” Close eyes, smile, and nod.
    Eventually, as we slowly edged closer to the autograph table, I stopped talking to Molly altogether. I didn’t want to be rude, but this was no time for idle chitchat. I needed to go inward, disappear into myself in order to fully prepare what I was going to say during my big moment with Tiffani-Amber Thiessen. I rehearsed my speech over and over again in my head until it was simply perfect. I had it down—every word, every nuance, every subtlety. It was, quite frankly, nothing short of a masterpiece. I knew deep down in my heart that even if Tiffani-Amber Thiessen met a thousand people that day, she’d remember me the very best. Perhaps she’d even tell me so, under her breath, of course, in an effort to not offend the less-memorable, so-called biggest fans in line behind me.
    I mean, she might be so moved by my heartfelt words and obvious dedication that she’d even ask for my home phone number, which I’d gladly give her, nonchalantly mentioning that my parents pay extra for three-way calling so we could also totally call Zack Morris and just shoot the shit if she ever wanted to, but no biggie.
    Sure, she was a big Hollywood star and I was just a fifteen-year-old with stars in my eyes and zits on my chin, but I knew the moment we met the planets would align and we would be inseparable, just like the Siamese twins I’d seen on a recent episode of Rikki Lake.
    The three hours spent in line—180 minutes, 10,800 seconds—seemed to go by in an instant, and suddenly I was being rudely yanked from my daydream by a large security guard who barked, “Hey, kid! You in the green jacket! You’re up.”
    Huh?!? Wait a minute. I was already at the front of the line?!? But I wasn’t ready!
    Oh my God, I thought. How’s my hair? How’s my breath? Why are my palms sweating? I’m next? It couldn’t possibly be my turn already! What was that brilliant-but-genuine thing I planned on saying to her? I forget. I forget!!! I FORGET WHAT I WAS GONNA—
    “What’s your name, sweetie?”
    I blinked and suddenly there she was, Tiffani-Amber Thiessen, all three names of her. Not in class next to A. C. Slater or in Mr. Belding’s office or slinging burgers at The Max—she was in front of me and she was asking my name. Holy crapballs.
    The weirdest thing about getting up close and personal with famous people is seeing their imperfections. Now, Tiffani-Amber, if I may be so bold as to go Thiessen-less, is a lovely lady and she looked every inch the TV star that day with her impossibly shiny hair and Malibu Barbie tan. But, when I got really close, I saw something that threw me for a major loop: A teeny tiny, itty-bitty glob of mascara in the corner of her left