For the most part, I have lived most of my life “under the radar.” As a child I was so painfully shy that I managed to miss twelve straight Junior High School Spanish classes without being marked absent. To borrow a title from the musical “Chicago” I was “Mr. Cellophane.” Last week, all of that changed.
While visiting my wonderful father-in-law Hank in the hospital, I noticed a nurse looking at me in a rather strange way. She wore a searching expression, her brow furled as if she was trying to solve a difficult puzzle.
“Where do I know you from?” she asked, tightening a blood pressure band around Hank’s upper-arm.
“Well, I am in the hospital quite often,” I responded, having slept on at least half of the gurneys in Roanoke over the years.
“No, she answered,” wagging her finger in my direction, “I know, you’re the guy who wrote about his dog Roscoe in the newspaper!”
Folks, I was floored. My face was awash in a deep blush. This was the first time that I had been correctly identified in public by someone I had not previously met. The sensation was both exciting and confusing. Throughout the years I have often been mistaken for other people but rarely recognized as myself.
Many years ago, while traveling to Florida to visit my Mom, a lovely young woman approached me in the Fort Lauderdale airport terminal, threw her arms around my neck and exclaimed “Kenny, it is so nice to see you, where’s Lucille?” We momentarily enjoyed a lingering embrace, (or at least I did) then separated. Begrudgingly, I explained that I possessed no information as to Lucille’s whereabouts, and although my name was Jon, she was more than welcome to address me as Kenny, Larry or any pseudonym that struck her fancy. Embarrassed and apparently disappointed, my mystery greeter withdrew and deserted me at the baggage claim.
Wherever I go I am either mistaken for someone’s Uncle Hobart, or I strike my fellow humans as completely invisible. When traveling for business in Parkersburg, West Virginia with my friends Tom and Angelique, we stopped in a local eatery for a bite prior to a sales meeting. When the three of us entered the establishment (together) the perky hostess directed herself towards Tom and Angelique inquiring “Table for two.” My two befuddled business partners turned their heads to the left as if to make sure that I was, in fact, still standing next to them, as I glanced into a nearby mirror to verify my presence as well. Later, when the meals arrived, my order was the only one missing, as was the waiter’s tip when it came time to settle up.
How can someone be so eminently forgettable?
I take some pride in my ability to recognize people and remembering their names. It’s important, although I nearly lost my summer job one year for failing to visually verify a musical celebrity. As an employee of Jones Beach Theatre in Long Island, New York, my job was to serve as an usher for the musical concerts staged at the venue. Boasting an impressive line-up of acts from a variety of musical genres, the theatre hosted everyone from Blue Oyster Cult to Mel Torme that summer.
My best friend Neil, a tall, well muscled fellow who worked as a security guard at the front gate of the theatre fell ill one evening after consuming fourteen pre-performance cocktails. As any good friend would, I volunteered to man Neil’s post while he revisited his last several meals. Security was light that evening as the headlining act, The Benny Goodman Orchestra, appealed to an older crowd. Neil told me that all I needed to do was look menacing (me?) and everything would be alright.
The evening went without incident, until, just prior to Showtime, an older gentleman raced up to the gate and blew right past me. Not known for my speed, I was able to capture the gate crasher just before he reached the backstage entrance. Blocking the door, I asked for the man’s ticket. The man explained that he did not have a ticket and that he was with the band. Determined to represent my fallen friend Neil, I argued with this fellow for several minutes, until the backstage manager brushed me aside and escorted the man inside. Later, I glanced inside the theatre, and recognized that fleet-footed fossil who out ran me. The speedy senior playing his clarinet on stage was, the stat himself, Benny Goodman. I had been hoisted on my own petard, defeated by the very pet peeve which continues to torture my tangled identity.
To the friendly nurse who correctly diagnosed that identity, it was a pleasure to meet you and I appreciate your kind comments about my writing. With the aid of this angel of mercy, I no longer feel translucent, and that blip on the radar screen? It is I, Hapless Jon, not “Kenny” or your “Uncle Hobart”, just little old me, the man who would not allow Benny to toot his flute without a ticket.