my brush with fame

My only goal in life is to be famous. I don't care if I'm rich, fabulous, or powerful; I just want fame. I would even settle for notoriety. Last Sunday, I almost got some.

I was walking to Gabriela's, a Mexican restaurant on the Upper West Side, to meet my parents for my father's 51st birthday celebration. I was going to be early, so made a few stops at gourmet bakeries to have a feast in Central Park after the dinner. After I left Kyotofu, I waited at a stop light to cross the street to get into the subway. Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to face an old man with a red splotch on his peeling face, yellowing large teeth, and a warm grin. He tipped his fedora as he said, "Excuse me, are you British?"

I was wearing my army jacket with flagrant, liberal pins and a yellow dress. Nothing really screamed British, and I wasn't talking to myself so he couldn't have based his assumption on an accent (albeit nonexistent). I started blankly at him. After the light turned green, and then back again to red, I shook my head.

"Oh, so sorry, it's just that you look just like a friend of mine. I'm from Britain, you know."

(I knew.)

"I mean, what nationality are you?"

"Indian," I replied, as I watched another light turn green.

"Ah, so is my friend!" I was about to explain that all Indians who look like me who happen to be his friends are obviously his friends and not a specific sect of the British population, but since I lost my early edge and was now running late, I resorted to "okay."

He then continued to ask me questions about my life, my work, my place of residence. He asked me about the city, my favorite neighborhood, my favorite type of mac & cheese. After what finally seemed to have been a full fledged violation of the Geneva Conventions (thinking about mac & cheese possibilities is undoubtedly a form of torture), he paused to take breath. I started to inch away.

"Well, dear, I apologize. I don't have a business card on me!"

(I hadn't asked.)

"Hm, what can I use?" He continued to search through his pockets. "I'm on my way to the gym, I didn't think to take one. I would love to get coffee, though, and talk some more. Do you have a business card or a pen?"

"Um, no."

(I did.)

"Oh, but," he seemed absolutely aggravated, "I would really just love to talk. I'm an actor, you know."

I looked up, and finally met his eyes.

"I'm on Law and Order. That's how I got this red mark on my face; the gun got caught on my cheek." He was a Russian spy on the show; a side character, but nevertheless, viewed by millions of people across the country.

"Actually, I," and I took out my phone, allowing the implication to suffice for the incomplete sentence.

He looked thrilled. He quickly gave me his number. "My name is Gary Hope. I promise you, I'm not a serial killer.

(How convincing.)

You can check out my demo on youtube."

I smiled.

"You're beautiful. Just beautiful. Really looking forward to coffee."

I haven't called yet, but I am saving the number in case the rest of my life falls through. If all else fails, I'll always have Hope.