Since I began writing this column I have always been surprised to discover that people actually read it. At the risk of annoying my editor, and losing the best unpaid job I have ever had, I have to admit that before I started writing this column I picked up the paper every Thursday and deposited it right into the trash can. My partner still does that if I don’t get to the paper first.
Compounding my surprise that people actually read what I write is that some people actually remember what I write. I still find it disconcerting when a stranger will come up to me at Publix, at LA Fitness, at the Mall and greet me by saying, “How’s the puppy?” or “You think your family is messed up? Let me tell you about mine.” Often this will lead to an extended conversation, while my partner, bored, shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and often concludes with a hearty hug. “Who was that?” my partner always asks afterwards.
“I don’t know,” I respond.
Of all of my youthful aspirations, none of which, by the way, I have achieved, becoming a minor local celebrity was never on my list. Although my minimal celebrity is limited to an area not quite as large as the Galleria Mall, there are still times when I long for the anonymity of my pre-columnist life, especially after last week’s experience at Walgreens.
I was waiting to pick up some photo enlargements and when I stepped up to the counter I gave my name. There was a couple behind me and I heard the woman say, “That’s him. I recognize him from his picture. He’s the one that writes for that paper what you say should be against the law.”
“Throw him in jail,” said the husband loudly. “Litterbug.”
I was wondering how to retreat without making eye contact with this duo but then I felt a tap on my shoulder and that’s how I met Vern and Earline.
They were in their mid-fifties and had what my friend Joe, a dentist, calls ‘summer teeth’ (“Summer over here and summer over there.”) They said they lived on the Intracoastal and that I would recognize their house if I saw it, although I could not recall seeing any double-wides on the Intracoastal.
“I read your column every week,” said Earline while Vern blew his nose and examined his handkerchief as though looking for pearls. “I think it’s great that someone like you has that opportunity.”
I paused. “Someone like me?” I said quietly.
Earline looked to Vern for moral support which was not forthcoming. “No, no I mean it’s great when you people can contribute to society.”
“We people?” I asked dangerously.
“Don’t get me wrong,” said Earline, “you write really good.” I was silent. “I don’t think you should be kept hidden at home,” she continued. Since I just stared at her she started to squirm. “I don’t know the political correct term but my niece is just like you and we love her dearly.” She fumbled to get her wallet out of her purse and showed me a picture. “See?” she said.
Stunned, I looked at the picture and chose my words carefully. “Your niece has Down’s Syndrome?” I asked gently.
“That’s it!” said Earline. “That’s the term.”
I cleared my throat. “I don’t have Down’s Syndrome,” I said.
Now Earline was stunned. She looked at Vern who stared at me. “Really?” she said. I shook my head. “Well then you’re not a very good writer at all,” she told me.