A couple of weeks ago my wife and I attended one of the free “Concert in the Park” events at the central square downtown. The band that night is one of the region’s most popular at weddings and other parties, and the lead singer spends his days running a local arts commission. They did Michael Jackson covers and Lady Gaga and oldies. Lots of little kids were dancing and the older folks were clapping in rhythm.
During a brief intermission, the singer strolled through the crowd and walked right past us, nodding and saying, “Hi. Thanks for coming.”
Such celebrity encounters are often hoped for and always thrilling, but they are at least half-expected in circumstances like a public concert. More thrilling still are those totally unexpected, candid glimpses of well-known personalities.
A few nights ago we were walking on the uncrowded main street fairly late. Turning a corner, we came face to face with a man who is probably the most popular postal employee in our town. We see him all the time at the post office, of course, sardonically attending to overseas shipping and tricky bulk mailings from behind the counter. But here he was, strolling in shorts and sneakers. There was an immediate recognition on both sides, but that didn’t quite lift the professional barrier between customer and postal steward. He was wearing a Hampton Beach T-shirt, and I pointed to it and said, “Hey. We’ve been there,” and that remark did lighten the tension. He smiled, said his family went there every summer, and immediately seemed more at ease. I imagine it was refreshing for him to come across some of his fandom after hours and not be met with gushy idolatry or be asked insipid questions about postal rates. In less than a minute we went our separate directions, but the memory has (obviously) lingered.
Just today we were in the Price Chopper, debating whether to buy regular or organic bananas. I happened to look up, and over by the deli counter was an unmistakable personage. “It’s him,” I said, motioning with my hand.
“Who?”
“The guy. The one from the recycling center.”
I’d seen him many times of course, but only from the shoulders up. He sits in the little shack where you first drive in; graying ponytail, efficient manner. You tell him how many bags of trash you have, and pay two dollars a bag to dump it. He’s always pleasant to deal with in that circumstance, but here he was, buying cold cuts. He was taller than I anticipated. We watched from afar for a minute or so, but did not approach.
I casually mentioned this to one of the neighbors, and he was suitably impressed.