Last night, Max and I went to a private reception and viewing of Robert Reed’s “Galactic Journal” at The Bayly. I have no idea of why we were invited. An invitation showed up in the mail at work, I RSVPed, and we went.
Anyhow, we were stopped by security at the door. Had we been invited? Despite our assurances, he remained unconvinced, but let us enter. Inside, we found that we knew nobody. Not one person. Everybody was quasi-dressed-up, the level at which old men wear salmon-colored pants and women wear polka-dotted dresses. After quickly surveying the first floor, we headed upstairs, where we also found that we knew nobody. Once again, we were intercepted by a security guard. Had we been invited? And again, this guard appeared to be mostly unconvinced, but let us continue on.
We headed back downstairs and we got some food from the caterer’s table. We hadn’t been standing there for maybe thirty seconds when I heard some women whispering behind us.
“Is that…is that the writer?”
I looked around, but spotted no obviously-famous writers. With Rita Dove, John Grisham, and a host of other famous writers in this town, one must be on one’s toes. But the women appeared convinced that this person really was “that writer.” One brave women stepped forward. To me.
“Excuse me — aren’t you the writer?”
“Um…I don’t think so. I mean, I’m a writer, yes.” I extended my hand. “Hi, I’m Waldo Jaquith.”
She shook my hand and introduced herself. I was so baffled that I forgot to pay attention to her name. She was obviously pleased with her conclusion that I was “the writer.” Her friends, hanging back a bit, beamed.
“Gosh, you know, I think this is a case of mistaken identity. I suspect that I’m not who you think I am.”
She smiled playfully.
“Oh, no! You’re the writer!”
OK, I’m the writer.