The World According To Woody

WOODY HARRELSON, pleasantly buzzed and done discussing the Zombieland the black-bean burger at his favorite vegan joint. sequel (October 18), craved He asked LILI ANOLIK to join. Thus began their wall-clambering, car-dodging, weed-infused quest.

- Lili Anolik

It ’s a Saturday in June and I’m running on time to meet Woody Harrelson, but one subway delay, one wrong turn, one mother with a double stroller failing to keep pace and clogging the already clogged sidewalks of midtown and I’ll be running behind. Adding to my anxiety: the possibility that I have no voice, not so much as a croak (laryngitis, a bad case). Brushing past a pair of doormen, I enter the lobby of a residential tower on the southwest tip of Central Park. I beeline for the elevator bank, press the up button, and glance at my phone. Two minutes after the hour. I’m now officially late. My pores open, sweat gushing out. At last, a muted ding as the doors slide apart. I board. To calm myself, I pull from my bag a sheaf of clippings on Woody. The big takeaway of recent years: He spent his entire adult life cuckoo for cannabis and then, in 2016, gave it up.

And yet, as I emerge from the elevator, I detect, if I’m not mistaken (and, frankly, I don’t see how I could be because it’s that strong), the sweet, feral stink of marijuana. Moments later, I’m standing at the entryway of the designated apartment, which doesn’t belong to Woody—he lives in Maui with his wife, Laura, and their three daughters, Deni, twenty-six; Zoe, twenty-two; and Makani, thirteen—but to a friend. I knock, and the door falls open as soon as my knuckles graze it. I take a tentative step inside. Then another. Then another. The smell is so strong now that it’s almost a taste. I take two more steps, and I’m at the edge of a large living room. In the center of it is Woody.