Innocence

Alone at coffee this afternoon, reading the New Yorker, when a young Black couple stopped at my table. "You know who you look like," the man asked?

What could I say?

"Clint Eastwood," he said. Which was both amusing and flattering. "That's right," he insisted, Clint Eastwood."

So I admitted, "Years ago, I used to hear that. Now that we're old, I guess I'll hear it some again."

"Do you know Clint Eastwood," he asked?

"I did. Back in the day." (Catchy little phrase, that.)

"Was he a nice guy?"

"Oh, yes," I assured him. "A very nice guy."

"I'd really like to meet him. Do you know where he lives?"

"Up northern California. I don't know exactly where."

"Would he talk to me if I met him?"

"I'm sure he would, just hanging out like he does."

"I'd like to be his friend. I would be a good friend to Clint Eastwood."

I smiled and nodded and wished him and his ladyfriend good luck and a good day as I returned to my magazine. I have no doubt that, somehow, I had made his day.