You know the drill, of how, someone, from afar, looks at someone else (usually a famous person), and has them instantly pegged, not just as a certain type, not as a simple category, but an entire life-story, expecting them from that moment on to fulfill the narrative and live up to expectations...The story somehow in our hands, somehow confirming our best worst suspicions...This celeb, from afar, this instantly recognizable, handsome, beautifully relaxed, confident, down-to-earth, elevated version of ourselves, living out the dream...We bump into them despite ourselves, reminded of their youthful looks, their perfect face and hair, the clothes, the house, the dog, their inimitable speech patterns, their quotable quotes, their video appearances, their travel destinations...So much imposed upon this constructed image, not allowing it to be other than it seems....
We had made our way down busy Palm Avenue towards the crosswalk. after zigzagging the usual route from busy Bandini Avenue to Tower Road to Rosewood Place. Bret was our wild-man companion - a fifth-grader with a take-no-prisoners approach to life. The local crosswalk, that most mundane of enterprises was soon to become the scene of spontaneous absurdist theater when suddenly out of nowhere came the random yelp: Hey...Hey...What do you want with us lady? - What do I want with you? said the most predictably normal gray-haired woman by whose ever so brief guidance we measured our daily jaunt to school. Yeah - where are you taking us? - There's only one way kid - It's this way... - You're not really a crossing guard are you? came the cheeky interrogative. The slightly bemused, limping, beleaguered woman was dwarfed by her bright yellow uniform as she held up her STOP sign - showing Brett. The other smaller kids walked by us single file in the middle of th...
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