Stalking Chunk

Finally, our last meeting of the day before my rendezvous with Cohen. We're at the MTV offices in Santa Monica. To give you an idea of how the meeting goes, I'll grant you "fly on the wall" privileges for one snippet of the conversation:

"Actually, we don't feel so well after that shrimp."

"Awwwww ... Do you girls have diarrhea?"

After messing up the MTV ladies room something awful, I drop Meg's funky butt off at the airport and race like the dickens to get to Cohen. I finally make it to his office, but I put a big dent in my rental car when I scrape a concrete pillar in the underground parking dungeon. I guess I'm nervous. I take the elevator to the third floor and the receptionist says, "Hello."

"Hi, I'm Norah Pierson here to see Jeff Cohen?"

I say it like a question, as if to ask, "Am I a fucking retard, or what?"

The receptionist makes a face, which indicates yes, I am a fucking retard, and yes, Cohen has in fact been telling all his colleagues about his very own stalker from New York, who's come to town to pay him a little courtesy call.

"Have a seat."

I do. Cohen keeps me waiting for 15 minutes. The saucy thing.

When he comes off the elevator, I don't recognize him at first. He's lost the whole chubby-cheek action. I expect him to have grown up into a big guy, like a mountain, but he hasn't. He's a very manageable, fit, 5-foot-8 or so.

"Hi, Norah."

This is him? He knows what I look like because he's seen the tape of the cable show I sent him. As he's walking toward me I make out the Chunk eyes, Chunk smile, Chunk forehead. Ladies, we have a winner.

As Cohen approaches, I try not to cry or have a dumb expression on my face. I stand up and shake his hand, then follow him back to his office. Some random hallway people look at me. They may or may not be snickering. Or maybe I'm paranoid. Who knows? Who the fuck cares? I'm hanging with Chunk! I can die a happy troll.

Cohen and I chat in his office for a few minutes and then on his suggestion we go to the Regent Hotel, a fancy-schmancy spot where Warren Beatty has allegedly fucked a lot of people, and there's a lounge where you can get shithoused in style. Cohen is so goddamn adorable, let me clarify: He is wearing some kind of brown and tan sweater in the Gap family, khakis, I think, or maybe jeans, something casual. His hair is wavy, but not curly like when he was a kid, and he's very clean-cut. No unnecessary oils or greases. No foul or cologny odor. He has sparkly eyes and a fun, contagious smile. He is so excellent. Do you know what I mean? Very excellent to be around.

I'm not nervous to be sitting here with him. As soon as the initial impact of seeing Chunk grown up before my very eyes wears off, I feel like I'm right where I should be. Cohen and I get along real well. I think he's more nervous than I am, because what I did is pretty weird. I try to make him feel comfortable and safe in the knowledge that I'm not out for blood or babies or anything demented or dirty. We have good conversation.

We don't talk so much about "Goonies," though I do get a quick Feldman update and some news about the Chinese invention kid, who Cohen happened to remain good friends with. Mostly we talk about normal stuff: my asinine range of hairstyles during adolescence and the ensuing mental scars I bear, his experiences and family, likes and dislikes, and we compare hobbies and knickknack collections -- that kind of thing.

When I refer to Miss Hannigan in "Annie," he doesn't skip a beat. We both agree that Carol Burnett did a very good job in the role. That was a bonding moment for me and Jeff.

A couple hours, a couple drinks and a crapload of olives and cheezysnacks later, it's time to say goodbye. I know if I drink any more I will be pulling a Mister Magoo on the freeway and I was already flipped off by Mark Wahlberg earlier in the week for driving too slow in front of him. (You don't need to rub it in my face, Marky Mark: I can't drive so swell.) So I'm not game to try my hand at the drunken-driving thing.

Cohen and I part at the elevator bank. We share a friendly, platonic "nice ta meetcha" embrace, and I remind him of his promise to let me take him out to dive bars the next time he's in New York. That might happen. If it does, I'll be psyched. I could be friends with this guy, this Jeff Cohen. He's no-nonsense nice. His mom's a kindergarten teacher. He's good people. And what a sport!

Can you imagine me as predator, you as prey? Not a one of you tools reading this right now would have had the balls and/or the decency to call me back if you had been in Jeff's shoes! Don't think I don't know that. But Jeff Cohen is a class act. And I hope he comes to New York so we can hang out again. But even if that doesn't happen, I've got my evening with Jeff at the Regent Hotel to cherish and propel me toward whatever lies ahead.

I didn't take any pictures, because I didn't want to be tacky. So you'll have to take my word for it.

It was glorious.

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