A few minutes later, I see Tommy Lee Jones puffing on a big cigar, sitting in a car. As he signs a few autographs, I put up my camera and take a couple of shots. He looks directly at me and shakes his head. "No pictures now," he says. He seems so tired and mournful that I'm chastened. I put my camera down.
Then a few more minutes go by, and Tommy Lee Jones is just sitting there, so very Tommy Lee Jones-ish. And when you think about it, he's sitting there in makeup about to have his picture taken by a big movie camera for the purpose of projecting it forty feet high in movie theaters all over the world. Plus he's doing all this on Madison Avenue, where people are lining the streets with cheap cameras. I can feel the minutes leaching by, the ghost shots peeling away and dissolving.
I snap off a shot. Tommy Lee glares at me, a wounded old bull taking one more poke.
