Five Letters East of Famous

It was a case of mistaken identity —

exchanged group e-mails among mutual

friends and acquaintances over issues

near and dear. Inevitably, some didn’t

know friends of friends. This was one

such case.

 

I had heard of him. His reputation preceded

him. He had no idea about me, but instead

of just asking, “Hey, who the heck are you?”

perhaps imagining that to be rude or too in-

trusive or just not his style.  He was a man used

to finding out things, so he just Googled me.

 

Not knowing my middle name, he was five

letters off and I’ve turned out to be five

letters east of famous and lost in the big pic-

ture’s shuffle, though he was at a disadvantage

and wouldn’t have found my name anyway

because I’m barely Google-able

 

except if you get lucky. He is pretty well known

and after looking at the wrong initial, concluded

the same about me.  He apologized profusely for

not recognizing immediately one of my fame and

stature in the highest echelons of academia. He

said he really wanted to be my pen pal.

 

I couldn’t be his facebook friend because my

face isn’t anywhere to be found and I may

be a twit but I don’t twitter or tweet.  So, in the

most academically sophisticated and bon vivant

response I could imagine, I replied,

“Surely you jest,” and then laid

 

out the details of a well-lived but not famous life.

I sit by my computer, plug it in so the battery

won’t run down while I wait.  Hey, you got mail.

He said I was famous in his book, which I haven’t

had a chance to read, and I burst into song, “It’s a

beautiful day in the neighborhood,

 

a beautiful day for a neighbor. Would you be mine?

Could you be mine?” put on a cardigan sweater and

Converse All-stars.  Hey, I’ve never been on T.V.,

but I used to be a Presbyterian minister.