Tuesday, October 3, 2017

Next time I’ll just ‘fess up to being a big Hollywood star



She was cute, young, blonde and looking at me speculatively. I noticed because that hasn’t happened in about 20 years. Not the “young” part, anyway.
I was at the dollar store, buying beach balls, leis and other silly stuff for a planned family barbecue/luau. I love shopping at the dollar store because everything’s a buck, which, as a writer, is about how much I have in my wallet at any given moment.
The girl – about five years older than my granddaughter Rosie (I kept reminding  myself) – would peer at me from behind the end caps as I wandered the aisles. When she’d catch me looking, she’d glance away.
Despite my enormous ego, I doubted she was stalking me with amorous intent. Not unless she had some serious daddy issues, or in my case, granddaddy issues. But since I rarely get any attention at all from girls in their early twenties, I figured I’d enjoy it while it lasted.
I took my time picking out the beach balls.
She followed me when I got in the checkout line, sneaking surreptitious glances in my direction at every opportunity.
Frankly, it was starting to weird me out. So finally I just stared back at her, trying to maintain a neutral expression. She caught me catching her staring, and finally spoke up.
“I- I’m sorry,” she said, gushing a little. “I just- I just wanted to tell you I love your stuff.”
“Um, thanks,” I said. I had no idea what my “stuff” might be, but if cute twenty somethings liked it, I was suddenly wishing I had more of it, or knew where to get some.
“No, really, I love all your stuff,” she repeated.
My first guess was she was talking about this column. Some people like it, and sometimes they tell me so, which I love. I also play in a little weekend band, and sometimes people tell me they like that, which I also love. But we’re not kids and our audience rarely includes listeners who don’t remember The Beatles. So I was still confused.
“Thanks,” I said again. People in line behind us were starting to look at me, too, trying to figure out if I actually was “somebody.” I was glad I’d bothered to shave and put on a clean shirt before leaving the house.
“You’re just so … so … GREAT in EVERYTHING,” the girl enthused. “That one where you’re on a boat and people are shooting at you…wow!”
And I thought I had been confused before.
“On a boat?” I said.
“Yeah,” she said, warming to the subject. “I forget the name, but it had you and that guy from ‘The Big Chill’ and that one girl with the black hair and glasses…”
“Um…no, I think you’re confusing me with someone else,” I said. The lady right behind her in line took out a phone and snapped my picture. The twenty something smiled at me; we were both in on a secret, apparently.
“Mmm-hmm,” she said. “But you’re that actor, right?”
“Actor?”
“I forget your name, but you’re him,” she assured me. “What else have you been in? Oh, let me think…”
“Maybe you’re thinking of Charles Laughton,” I said. “The guy who played Quasimodo in ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame?’”
“No-ooo,” she said. “That’s not it.”
“I was kidding,” I said. “You think I look like Quasimodo?”
“I didn’t see that one,” she said. “I’m thinking of the one where you’re on a boat.”
“Honey, I’m not an actor, really,” I said. “I’m just a guy buying beach balls. Sorry.”
She didn’t believe me, I could tell. There’ve been too many women in my life who have doubted my veracity and I recognize the expression.
“Sorry,” I said again. “I wish I was an actor, honest. I could use the money. But I’m not.”
I left with my beach balls. Driving away, I could see the girl and the lady behind her in line staring out the window at me. No doubt talking about what a stuck-up Hollywood snob I was; too good to give the fans an autograph.
Ah. Fame, alas, is fleeting.

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