In the course of our lives, we run into, or walk past, zillions of people, especially in New York City, where I live. Some of them are recognizable–admired celebrities or notorious characters.
For me, these encounters often occurred as an incident peripheral to my wildly entertaining working life. So peripheral, in fact, they won’t make the pages of my memoir, If Nobody’s There, I’ll Talk to Anybody. Nope, if my memoir were film dailies running through that old-fashioned editing gadget, a Moviola, they’d be outtakes plopping on the cutting room floor.
Now and then I bump into news about a memorable person whose path I crossed once, usually briefly. Some of these people were well known; some should have been.
They did not change my life or my thinking. I most certainly didn’t change theirs. In fact, I doubt if any one of them remembers me. So let me be the historian of moments in my life without any reason to be commemorated, except that I feel like doing it.