Yesterday afternoon as I was coming back inside my apartment building after walking my dog, a man on the sidewalk yelled out to me.
I stopped, looked back and asked him what he had said, while carefully examining him to determine if 1) he was a crackhead 2) he was fucking crazy or 3) he was going to ask me for money. I live in Brooklyn, and these are the first things that pop into my head when a random dude yells at me.
“Jeff!” he said, “You’re Jeff, right?”
“No, not me man, sorry.”
He looked down for minute, and I thought this was my chance to escape, but he persisted.
“You’re not Jeff? You drive a silver car.”
“No, no. I don’t even own a car. That’s not me.”
“Oh wow, you look just like Jeff,” he continued, and at that, I made my way into my building.
This moment would not be that odd, of course, had this been the first time this guy said this to me.
But it wasn’t.
That was the second time that same guy said I looked like a man named Jeff in the last two months, and I only realized that after the moment had passed.
So somewhere, in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn or the surrounding neighborhoods, a man named Jeff is walking around being me, and apparently, I am walking around being him.
I like to think that this Jeff guy is a suave, sophisticated man, but if this guy thinks I’m him, Jeff sadly must be a guy who wears sweatpants with dog slobber on them all too often, and occasionally wears his fiancee’s coat when it rains if he’s feeling lazy (which happens to be two sizes too small).
But this is the best I get.
No one ever says I look like anyone famous or anything like that. Not once has anyone claimed that I look exactly like Bruce Willis even though I have adamantly proclaimed this to Ari more times than I’d like to admit.
No Brad Pitt.
No George Clooney.
I wonder if Jeff feels this same way? I wonder if he’s being called “Chris” and despises me too? If he is I really don’t feel all that bad for him.
At least he has a car, and a silver one at that.