I hadn’t seen him in ten, maybe twelve years. Kiefer and I were never close, despite having worked on two films together, back-to-back. In fact, when I was filming the sequel to The Lost Boys with his younger half brother Angus, I remember thinking that I felt closer in a matter of weeks to Angus than I’d ever felt to Kiefer, despite having worked together for nearly six months. Kiefer is—or at least was—a pretty introverted guy. Still, I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around in his seat at the bar. “Corey! Wow, man, how are you?” We exchanged pleasantries, gave each other a hug, until talk eventually turned to our work together on the set of The Lost Boys. “You had it rough, man. You went through a lot. I don’t know if I ever told you this story, but I feel like I should…” He proceeded to tell me about a night long ago, several weeks into filming in Santa Cruz. He had returned to the hotel from set, was sitting in his car in the parking lot polishing off a beer, when he saw me sitting on the exterior stairwell, my head in my hands, crying.
