“Jeff,” the man says to
me.
I am standing alone in a
crowd on the plaza. The guitarist on stage cuts quite a figure. He is very tall
with dreadlocks pouring out from under his black cowboy hat, and has just
advised the audience he doesn’t sing and for this reason his music has no
lyrics. He suggests we make up our own words and sing to the person beside us,
whether we know them or not, and if we do know them, we can sing dirty. He
laughs. The audience does not. So, ok, he’s got a way to go at being a stand-up
comic, but it turns out he does know how to jam on that guitar.
However, I am alone, to
a profound degree. Everyone here is a stranger. I’m here to listen to the music
and don’t have any plans on singing.
“Jeff,” the man says
again, this time with added emphasis. He’s standing ever so slightly in my
space. He is not someone I can see myself singing to. At all. But his demeanor
is friendly and he’s searching my face for recognition.
“You, or me?” I ask, as
it’s not clear if he’s making a statement or asking a question. It occurs to me
this may be his pick-up line. Just walk up to a person and pretend they are
someone you’re looking for and if they respond with interest, well, you go with
it. What do I know? And it doesn’t bother me that a man may be trying to pick
me up. How I look to any particular person doesn’t threaten my sexual identity.
Despite all I’ve been through with women causing me to at times wonder why I’m
still interested in them, bless their hearts, I am. So I stand there calmly and
look at him.
“You. Are you Jeff?” he
says. He puts his hand out and I take it and we shake hands. His hand is warm
and soft and he has a firm grip. This is the first physical contact I’ve had
with another person in days. I am acutely aware of the absence of and the
longing I feel for physical contact.
“No,” I say.
“Are you sure?” he asks,
smiling.
“Yes,” I say. It seems
this is a less than intelligent question. Knowing what your name is, or what
your name is not when someone asks you seems like a basic to me. Something a
person generally does not need a second chance to get right. Likely he’s just
trying to keep the ball rolling.
“You look just like him,” he says. “You’re sure
you’re not Jeff?”
“Yes,” I say.
Years ago my dad’s good
friend Russ and his wife went to Spain and stayed with relatives, who invited
the neighbors over for dinner and to meet them. One of the neighbors apparently
looked so much like my dad, it spooked Russ. Really shook him up. With seven
billion people out there, a good probability exists each of us has at least one
twin. So whatever he’s up to, this fellow’s continued inquisitiveness is ok.
He stands there, still
friendly, and I stand there, still friendly. Perhaps he is actually looking for
me, and he has the wrong name. But I’ll stick with my response, as is. “Well,
ok,” he says and motions to leave.
“Good luck,” I say, and
he walks away, continuing his hunt for Jeff, or someone.
It’s been nice to have
contact with another person. For a moment I wonder what may have happened had I
said, “yes,” or “I could be, for you.” After all, I could become a Jeff, or
maybe I am Jeff. Saying yes might have rattled the man, or we might go out for
drinks and have a good time and then he’d invite me over to his place. Or not.
Given the mysterious
nature of life, there’s a slim chance I’ve simply been living in a dream named
Gordon all these years, or the hospital made a mistake with my birth
certificate and no one noticed the slip. What would Jeff, p.k.a. Gordon be
like? Maybe he’s the coolest guy, financially secure, and after a glorious
career designing prosthetic limbs for children, he becomes a Buddhist and his
wife of many years loves him even more. A whole new persona might be fun, might
be a relief; the possibilities are endless. But Karma can be a funny thing, and
standing here by myself listening to the music and being honest is the way it
is. And it might rack me up a few good points.
Later, the man walks by
and greets a group of people gathered by the monument. Both men and women,
they’re all talking and laughing and smiling, and they recognize the man and
welcome him into the circle. I look at them. None of the men looks remotely
like me, to me. None of the women do either. Hey, I knew a girl in school named
Mike, so one of them could be Jeff and the man’s perception is a little off. Or
it’s my perception that’s off. Maybe the guy with the pot belly, grey frizzy
hair and blue mirror wrap around sunglasses is Jeff. Or maybe Jeff hasn’t shown
up yet. Maybe he’s on unexpected business in Guatemala. Or maybe a priest is
giving him the last rites in some E.R., and he’ll never show up. A lot of
things can happen to a person.
Gordon Bunker
