barbara dickson

Have you ever had a day that starts out like any other but turns into something extraordinary? For better or for worse, a seemingly benign event turns your world on its head.

When I woke up Friday, September 5th, 2008, I thought I was going to have a day like the hundreds of days before it—help the girls get off to school, head to my favourite coffee shop to write for a couple of hours, come home to rest for the afternoon, fix supper, take a walk with my husband, David, watch some TV, check my e-mail, and call it a day well spent about 10:30pm.

The day started out exactly like I expected it to. The girls went to school, I did my coffee shop thing, came home, and rested. But that’s when any sense of ‘ordinary’ ended. From 2:37pm onward, my day, while not life-altering, became something you find logged in history’s annals under the column labelled ‘chance of a lifetime.’

Before I lay my head down that night, I would attend Brad Pitt’s Gala Presentation for his latest film “Burn after Reading” at Roy Thomson Hall. More astounding, I not only would secure the best seats in the house, I would live every woman’s dream.

Perhaps some would call my daily routine pathetic, a small sort of existence, confined mostly to my home. But I like to think I make the most of each day, doing what I can do within the limits of the debilitating progression of multiple sclerosis.

As part of my daily rest routine, I read the daily newspapers and work on crossword puzzles to keep brain fog at bay—a disconcerting symptom of MS. I was leafing through the first section of the Toronto Star—which, by the way, was free as a thank-you for my loyal subscribership!—when I found a full-page ad announcing a contest to win two tickets to the Gala Presentation of “Burn after Reading” at the Toronto International Film Festival that very evening. The random draw would take place at 2pm.

I looked at my watch: 1:05pm. Did I have the energy to boot up my computer and enter a contest I had absolutely no chance of winning? My eyes drooped, my head felt fuzzy, my body ached for sleep. I glanced at the ad again. The words, “If you don’t enter, you can’t win,” whispered through my sleepy mind. What did I have to lose but a few minutes of nap time? I dragged my body to the computer and at 1:25pm I sent off my entry.

Then I headed for dreamland…ignoring the telephone when it rang forty minutes later.

When the phone’s cacophonic peal started up for the third time in less than twenty minutes, I gave up napping. It was 2:37pm.

I picked up the receiver to find a nice-sounding woman named Merry Dang on the other end, telling me that not only had I won the Toronto Star contest, I was their Grand prize winner.

I kept trying to explain to Merry that, “I don’t win anything.” She must have made a mistake. She sounded much more confident than I.

Merry told me two tickets to Roy Thomson Hall would be couriered to my home within a couple hours. The gala started at 9:30pm but my husband and I should get there early as the seats weren’t reserved.

At 4:40pm I held two silver-coloured tickets in my hands. David and I hurried to get ready. We hadn’t had a chance to dress up in a long time so we relished the opportunity.

So began a magical night, the kind where fairy godmothers surely have a hand in.

David and I enjoyed a delicious supper at Il Fornello on King Street West, finishing around 7:30pm. Still two hours to show time. We sat on a park bench behind RTH for about an hour. But the wind picked up and the skies threatened Gustav’s ire, so we headed underground into Toronto’s PATH system. With a quick trip to the restrooms, we headed to RTH. Our intention was to find somewhere warm and dry to sit and wait until they allowed theatre goers in. We walked through PATH’s maze of interconnecting tunnels and shop areas. We bypassed the growing throng outside RTH completely.

Unexpectedly, the corridor we selected took us directly into the main lobby of RTH. Of course, security stopped us immediately. When I explained I had won a contest, had MS, and could they possibly please just give me a chair to wait, the wonderful TIFF volunteer not only offered me a chair, I was seated just inside the main doors.

My fairy godmother must have worked overtime because from my coveted perch, I’d be able to watch the celebrities, the patrons, and the thrill all transpire right before my eyes.

Not many minutes passed when a RTH employee decked out in a tuxedo approached. He felt I would be more comfortable upstairs on the Mezzanine level, since that’s where my seat was located. In addition, the lobby was about to get crazy with the arrival of Brad Pitt and the other cast members.

I think he thought he was doing me a favour, protecting me somehow from the crush of frenzied fans. Didn’t he know that I wanted be one too? Who cared if I got trampled? What’s a little concussion when I could meet Brad Pitt? But my tuxedo man was insistent. He wanted me out of harm’s way. So, with a definite, defeated droop of my shoulders, David and I followed the gentleman to the elevators and up to the second level.

He glanced at our tickets and settled us in chairs near the doors to our section. I assumed the stars would sit in the front row of the main level, and I asked him if our seats in the balcony were at least close enough, without the use of a telescope, to know Brad Pitt was somewhere in the huge theatre. “He’s sitting in the section next to yours,” he said. My heart flipped. “So, if I sit on the right hand side of our section—?” I asked. His smile and nod was all I needed.

While we waited, we hurried over to an area on our level where we could look down into the lobby area below. We had a perfect view of the makeshift cordoned off area where in just a few moments Brad and his crew would walk by. We joked with other patrons who had gathered there, wondering aloud if, from our vantage point, we’d be able to tell if Mr. Pitt was balding.

The din below grew louder, TIFF employees started scrambling, and a burly body guard arrived. It wasn’t long now. With cameras posed, breath held, and hearts tripping, the Coen Brothers appeared, followed by Frances MacDormand, John Malcovich, Tilda Swinton and others.

Finally, Brad appeared. He looked stunning, more incredible in person than even those touched-up magazine shots. He was gracious with his fans, stopping and signing autographs. We yelled out to him to “Look up, Brad! Look up!” He looked up and smiled and continued on his promenade. And I’m happy to report he has a full head of hair.

As soon as he disappeared from view, David and I hustled to our section. We were able to seat in the second row from the front in the first two seats right by the stairs. Our RTH gentleman was right—the section right next to ours, separated by only a stair rail, had been reserved for the cast and crew of “Burn after Reading.”

Of course, the front row was reserved for Brad and his fellow celebrities. But the second row, at the end closest to my row (and me!) had three additional seats reserved for Brad’s guests.

My spirits dropped again when our section usher, an employee of Alliance Films told us Brad probably wouldn’t sit through the movie—he’d seen it already. He’d appear most likely on stage at the beginning to introduce the film along with the Coen Brothers and the cast, then slip in at the end of the presentation to receive any applause.

“Oh, well,” I breathed. Even fairy godmothers can’t do everything. I looked around the grand theatre and reminded myself how special and extraordinary it was just to be included in such an exciting ‘once in a lifetime’ event. Here I was, sitting in Roy Thomson Hall for a Gala Presentation of a TIFF film—I was helping make local history.

The house lights dimmed, the stage lights came up, and introductions were made. Cheers from the crowd went up as the Coen Brothers introduced each cast member. Then, just as quickly, the stage darkened, and the film began.

I settled back, ready to enjoy the film when movement to my right distracted me. Dark shadowy outlines of people filed down the stairs and silently filled the first few rows of Brad’s section.

The cast had arrived.

Trying not to look like a complete groupie, I nonchalantly strained my neck to see if Brad was amongst the crew. His seat sat empty.

Another “Oh, well” slipped from my soul. My fairy godmother had gone home. But I realized a few people were still feeling around for seats in the second row, across from me. I cast a sideways glance at them and my heart jumped.

Brad Pitt had settled in the second row, on the end, not more than ten feet from my seat. The only things separating us were a set of stairs and a banister.

I sat in stunned silence. The woman behind me went into quiet hysterics when she realized how close her heartthrob was. David leaned back and patted her knee in an attempt to calm her.

I watched “Burn after Reading” with my husband and BRAD PITT. I couldn’t help but mull over the bizarre turns of the day’s events. That morning I was packing school lunches. And just thirteen mere miniscule hours later, I was sitting watching a movie with Brad Pitt. I WAS SITTING WATCHING A MOVIE WITH BRAD PITT.

I caught David leaning forward to study Brad. I teased him, but silently, I desperately wanted to do the same. I must have sneaked a thousand half-glances to my right. Would he notice? Who cared if he did? After all, he was BRAD PITT!!

Time moved at warp-speed and before I could get past the fact that Brad was beside me, he stealthily moved from his second row seat to the front row in time for the end-of-premiere applause. I’m not sure but I might have clapped a little louder than my fellow patrons.

The theatre darkened again and I sensed shadowy movement beside me. The crew and cast were leaving, obviously to get ahead of the crowd. I strained my eyes in the dark. Where was Brad? I felt my heart thud in my chest. Somewhere a clock must be striking twelve because in just a few seconds David’s and my magical night would quietly slip back into the pumpkinseed everyday existence that the vast majority of Earth’s human race call reality .

I couldn’t let the night end without one last ditch attempt to prolong the magic. I stood and snapped a picture in the blackness. The flash revealed Brad standing, his back toward me.

I waited.

I sensed he’d turned to face me.

So I did what any living, breathing warm-blooded Canadian woman would do—I thrust out my hand.

And Brad took it.

“You did good, Brad,” I said, the calmness of my voice surprising me, and loving the horrible grammar I used. I forgave myself instantly—after all, who could hold me accountable—Brad was holding my hand.

“Thank you,” he said back.

And as quickly as he took my hand in a strong, confident handshake, he let go, and was whisked away.

The lights came up, and with the crowd mulling around us, I could almost hear the last soft chime of a distant clock striking twelve.

I smiled a sweet, satisfying smile at David. “I just met Brad Pitt. Let’s go home.”

What’s the moral to this story, other than “If you don’t enter, you can’t win” and “What do you have to lose?”

It’s this: You just never know when life will offer you a sweet morsel, a once in a lifetime experience, an evening when even fairy godmothers grow a tad green with envy at your grand fortune. Seize the day. Make it count. Life is fleeting. When you’re offered a chance at adventure, grab hold and enjoy the ride.

You just never know.