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.
(616) 745-9530
No comments:
Post a Comment