Oh, it’s Ted Danson. So what? He’s in the middle of a group around the corner from where I live. They’re taking pictures, all excited, talking loudly. I don’t really care.
I walk in to my local deli not really wanting to buy anything. Browse the Portuguese newspapers, look around, walk away. Pass by him and his fans, pretending I don’t care, get the phone, call the wife, report.
We’re New Yorkers, that’s how we do it, we act blasé but we do report to friends and family who’s standing right in front of us. Who we’re pretending we didn’t notice. This stuff happens all the time.
As I’m walking and talking on the phone, I turn back and he’s walking right after me. Wife says, what? Is he stalking you or something? Did he hear that?
I go on and walk into a newsstand, to check other foreign magazines. Escape the tall, white hair, sunglasses guy. Who may be a lookalike, haven’t it occurred to you?
Literature is still alive, glad to report, so is the massive celebrity zines. None with Danson on the cover.
I think about his Fred Astaire moves on “Body Heat,” a favorite of mine. Think about commenting about it with him. Nah.
I turn around, he’s right next to me. Big, tall guy, obviously oblivious to me, but I can’t help thinking, there’s no way, but I do think.
– “Who reads this stuff?” he says.
Now I’m freaked out, really, like being in a play and the main character stares at you. Unblinkingly. Staring like a croc. I’m scared.
A twist on celebrity stalker. I’m the stalked one. What’s going on here? I hate celebrities. Is he talking to me?
I’m a chicken, I can’t make myself reply to him and he steps aside. He’s seen this happening before, I’m sure. Will he mention that to his own wife? I doubt it. I actually like her. What, now I’m an expert on their marriage? Why do I even care?
Does he come home and says, and then, there was this short guy in New York. They love me there.
– “I don’t think those people were from New York, pal… Just sayin…” No, don’t say anything.
Would she say something like, oh, you’re full of it! He’s freaking Ted Danson, for Christ’s sake.
So what? No longer an ‘A List” type of guy, I guess.
Environmentalist, I hear. That’s nice. I think I’ve read some stuff. Neat. Why do I care? Well, it’s nice, but so what?
I look at the magazine covers, searching for inspiration. I can’t believe I’m actually thinking about saying something that would please Ted Danson. Stalking celebrity.
Is he gay? Sick? Why do I care? I get it, perfect headline: “Do you know this guy?” about James Franco, who’s on at least a third of the covers this week. Damn celebrities.
I turn but Danson is walking away. Just like that. Why do I care? I hate them.