Are You Looking at Me!

Many times in life I have gone virtually unnoticed. Not only could I stay safely under the radar, I could have set up camp inside a radar dish and only gotten spotted when I fired up my charcoal grill.

“O. M. G. There’s a flaming meteor about to hit earth… ah crap, never mind it’s just whatshisname again.”

In kindergarten, I didn’t have to worry about losing at musical chairs because I never had a chair to begin with, or milk, or a pillow at naptime. And when they took attendance and the teacher asked: “Did I miss anyone?” She’d move my outstretched arm aside and say: “Guess not.”

Part of the reason I guess is because I was always a bit shy at school. “Who’s the kid behind the tree?” “Dunno, but he has a lunch pail.” 

I did have a desk in grade school, but being a W, I was in the last desk in the last row, the one that wobbled and had a dead mouse in the inkwell. It was nice, though, when we had atomic bomb drills, because I was the first one into the basement with my head between my knees. Course, being the leader, I sometimes took a wrong turn. Wonder where the others are? And why is there a mountain of coal in the safety room? 

I finally started to get some recognition in junior high. “I shoved him into his locker again.” “Who?” “You know, that nondescript kid. Earl or Irving or Frank or something.”

However, in high school, things got much better and I began to get noticed – especially by girls – and so I got braver. “Want to go to the prom with me?”

“Do I know you?”

“We’ve been dating for three months.”

“Really?”

That’s part of the reason I moved from New Hampshire to California. I heard it was easy to get discovered out here. “Excuse me, can you tell me how I can break through in Hollywood?”

“Pretend you’re someone recognizable.”

I tried school again when I went to Brooks Institute of Photography. And there was a lot more interaction as we often had to pose for each other to practice our portrait skills. 

“You take that photo? Whose is that?”

“Got me, but if you see anyone that even looks remotely like him let me know. I have to do a reshoot. He kinda blended into the backdrop.”

Of course, things are much different now that I switched from photography to writing and became a media personality.

“Say, don’t you write for the Montecito Journal?”

Beaming: “Yes I do!”

“I knew it. You write all that social gossip stuff about the locally rich and famous.”

“Ah no, that’s Richard Mineards. I write…”

“Entertainment. Of course. Love your theater coverage and the quips on local musicians.”

“Ah, no, that’s Steve Libowitz.”

“History?”

Ah. no, that’s Hattie Beresford.”

“Huh. Oh, I know, duh, you write all those obituary pages!”

“No, that’s the Independent. Different paper. I write Ernie’s World.”

“You sure?”

All these memories came flooding back recently when I heard the song “Mister Cellophane” performed at Center Stage theater by the Selah Dance Collective. It was haunting.

“So, you do go to all those theater events and write reviews for the Montecito Journal. I knew it!”

“No, I was there because my daughter-in-law Ashley was one of the performers.”

“How’d she do?”

“She was amazing. They all were.”

“Reviewer. Reviewer. Reviewer.”

Sigh. Anyway, the lyrics sum up my life somedays: “Mister Cellophane, should have been my name, ‘cause you look right through me, walk right by me, and never know I’m there.’” 

I had Alexa play it for the third time. It made me want to dance, so after dipping, shuffling and falling several times, I worked up a sweat and decided to take a shower. My wife was watching some weird show on her computer as I undressed and told her about my day. Suddenly, there was applause coming from her computer and the actors seemed like they were looking at me.

“It’s my Zoom yoga class,” Pat said. “Might as well take a bow.”

I ran from the room. In the background I heard someone ask Pat: “Who was that unmasked man?”

“No idea,” Pat said.