The other day I met Justin Timberlake at a bus station here in Munich.
That was quite bizarre, he was just standing there, apparently waiting for the bus. At first, I wasn’t sure whether it was really him; just a guy in a shirt, jeans and a jacket. I glanced at him a couple of times, the man looked a wee bit pissed, but not too much. You know how it is—you look at someone, wondering whether your mind is playing tricks on you, or whether you’re going crazy, because what you see is highly improbable.
After two minutes I’ve decided to say something. He had noticed me glancing, but hadn’t said anything. And there’s only so much glancing you can do before it becomes impolite or even rude.
I cleared my throat. “Mr. Timberlake?”, I asked.
He looked at me, still appearing a bit pissed.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” I’ve said. “My name’s Carlo Zottmann, I live here, and I work on the interwebs for a living.”
His brows narrowed a bit; puzzled, he appeared to be.
“I like your music. Not everything, but a couple of your songs are rather cool. Just wanted to let you know.” With that, I smiled and turned away.
After a moment he said, “Why did you tell me that?”
I turned back to face him. “Well, I know who you are and what you do. I think it’s only fair to level the playing field. And claiming I’d be your biggest fan and have all your albums would be a lie, so why do it.”
He grinned. “True.” And that was that, then.
Or not. Half a minute later and turned to me again and asked, “Do you know a pub or something around here?”
That’s how I ended up having a Weissbier with him at the Lehner’s in Trudering. Who’d have thought? Turned out he was dumped by some woman in the middle of Munich without his entourage (he didn’t want to go into details, but I think it was planned to be a romantic evening), and he didn’t feel like calling them. Instead he had opted for walking around a bit. Makes sense, Munich isn’t that big. We talked about our families and life, the job, the usual stuff. That was pretty cool, I have to admit. He’s just another bloke, his job seems to be more glamorous than mine, but only a bit.
Fun fact: almost noone seemed to recognize him. I ordered for him, and there are a lot of english speakers in town anyways, so hearing another language is not unusual. Heh. When bringing us the bill, the waitress caught a closer look and for a moment seemed to faint. J’s expression hardened ever so slightly, and he seemed to prepare himself for the unavoidable things to come, but I manage to interrupt.
“Don’t. _Please._”, I asked her.
“But… this is…”, she started.
“I know who he is. Please, don’t. Show some mercy.” I grinned at her. “I don’t think he’ll object to giving you an autograph, but give the man some quiet time.”
She pondered it for a moment, and finally smiled. “Okay.”
So he paid for the food and the drinks, gave her the promised autograph, and then we slipped out. By then it was night, and the humidity of the day had vanished a bit.
“Well, thanks for the beer, Carlo.” he said.
I took the offered hand. “I didn’t pay. Thank you. Hey, need a lift or anything? I could call Dana, we could bring you back to the hotel…”
He interrupted me with a quick shake of his head. “Nah, ’s cool. I’ll walk back. Or take the subway.”
“Really? You sure?”
“Your town is tiny. I’ll manage.”
“Screw you, Timberlake. Munich fuckin’ rocks.”
He laughed. “Take care.”
After that, I walked home. It’s only 20 minutes by foot, and it helped me to clear my head. Dana couldn’t believe what I told her after coming through the door, and was (understandably) a bit miffed I didn’t call her when we we’re still at the restaurant. I promised her to let her know right away the next time I met a celebrity at the bus station. Heh.
And that was how I had a drink with Justin Timberlake, of all people.
Now, this anecdote has been one of the greatest in my life, and is obviously completely made up. I consider it an excercise in LIEterature. So there.