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We parse the divergent narrative styles of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. “Sloppy Huck’s didn’t make it into the movie,” he says, smiling down. I’m starting to wonder, How long do we have for this breakfast? Will he have to leave soon? Are we going to ride the bikes? He answers questions not as if he’s being interviewed but rather as if he’s standing in the corner at a party, chatting and telling delightful stories. (A man who owned a taco-and-doughnut shop gave it to him.) He does not place his phone on the table, the way most people do.
LAUGHING IN THE WIND 2001 PROUD HOT MOVIE
His ball cap has a logo of a half doughnut, half taco, a totem from a recent movie shoot in Saratoga Springs, New York. The blue eyes are as blue as they are in the movies, or bluer.
LAUGHING IN THE WIND 2001 PROUD HOT SKIN
His skin is tanned and healthy-ruddy-and he has enviable blond hair that always looks like he went swimming in the ocean a half hour ago and it dried in the sun, annoyingly perfect. This article appeared in the September 2021 issue of Esquire
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“Let’s sit down,” he says, his hand on my shoulder. He eases his jaw forward into an Owen Wilson smile. “Do you know what the Iditarod is?” he asks me. A brown T-shirt hangs inside, commemorating the 1987 Iditarod. Owen looks at a bright-yellow windbreaker that says camaro z/28. They’re selling vintage clothing out of the bus. People sit at all the other tables, but for some reason not this one, tucked back in the alley.īut then he changes course! He walks over to a shortened school bus parked on the outskirts of the restaurant seating. He walks toward an empty picnic table around a corner, shaded from the sun. “Here, maybe we can just go over there and sit down,” Owen says. The employees smile at us, but no one speaks. We walk inside, then back out into gray light filtering through a cornflower- blue sky. Locals recently awakened from a yearlong slumber are draped over the furniture like Dalí clocks, clutching latte mugs with two hands. Earnest California food-you can substitute soyrizo for chorizo in your breakfast burrito, and there’s bulletproof coffee, that kind of thing. You order at a counter, then they bring you your food at one of the outside tables. ” and walks toward the door, scoping it out. With calm in his voice, Owen says, “Well, hold on. “Do you want to go somewhere else?” I ask, and immediately regret it. The other bike is for me to use after breakfast. Owen has just pulled up on an electric bike with a guy on another bike who says hello, gets off his bike, and vanishes. It’s a warm Saturday morning in June, and we’re at Blueys, a restaurant in an industrial part of Santa Monica. "There's a little bit of a line," Owen Wilson says, his voice low, as if these might be the first words he has spoken today. This writer looks nervous-if that’s who that is. Maybe this is a good beginning to the story. Maybe there’s usually a line and me and Paul just got lucky that time? I wonder if we should have pushed this interview to later in the day. I’m glad I brought the Allen wrench for the other bike, because he’s kind of tall, and we might need to adjust the seat. I guess he thought it was shorts weather. He’s going to wonder why I’m standing out here by the parking lot, waving. Or maybe everybody knows that as soon as you arrive at Blueys, you better get right in that line. So maybe it’s not him? Except now that he’s closer, it’s almost definitely him: craggily handsome face, blond hair shagging down from under the ball cap, really cool plaid shirt.Īnd if it is him, and we’re supposed to have breakfast, should I have been waiting in that long line? Or does he not have to wait in line, because he’s famous? Maybe this is his regular breakfast spot-they know him, and he has a special table-so waiting in line would make me look like an amateur. This could be the start of the article, I’m thinking.īut what’s this? There’s another guy hovering behind him, on another bike. He wears long pants, though the weather is warm. The bike maintains speed even though he’s not pedaling. He’s half standing on the bike, one leg straight, lips pursed to the relative wind, like a kid cruising to the bike racks at school. When you can see his whole body, it turns out he’s riding a bicycle, which was why it looked like he was hovering. There’s a guy hovering over the asphalt, way, way down the street, a head with a ball cap and sunglasses.