ʃ  Graham Greene  ʅ

He just kept staring at me, and I could not figure out why. Had I done something wrong? Did he think he knew me? Was he planning to grab my nuts? There were bags and bags of them on the counter, so probably not. And I was pretty sure he didn’t want to dance, at least not in the Air Canada Frequent Flyer lounge. So what was the matter?

Will celebrities never learn that we mundane folk don’t like to be gawked at?

* * *

Yes, you’re right, at first it was no big deal. My boss had shown his ID at the reception desk and then nudged me in the ribs while hissing conspiratorially, “See who’s standing over there? It’s Graham Greene.” (The thing is, this man sounded just enough like Peter Lorre to make whispering an edgy choice even at the best of times.) Trying not to be too impolite, I darted a glance in Mr. Greene’s direction only to catch him staring right at me. After an instant of shock (and a gaze-averting reflex) the outer layers of my brain said, “Relax you idiot, he wasn’t staring at you. It was just a coincidence,” but the reptilian chunks slithered in with, “The hell he wasn’t staring at you; in fact, he’s still staring at you.” That thought made the back of my head feel funny, so I had to take one more quick peek just to make sure he wasn’t really staring at me… but he was. I took the only honorable course of action left to me: I crouched down to fiddle with my bag, hiding behind the counter.

Why do people feel compelled to look at certain things? Are they afraid of them? I’ve heard that a frog will stare intently at an infinitesimally unusual reed, just to make absolutely sure it isn’t a heron. I don’t know who figured that out, but I started out as a frog and ended up as a reed. I guess the rule is that you don’t take your eyes off of anything that might spear/swallow/ingest you when you’re not looking.

But my glancing over at Mr. Greene hadn’t started out as a fear response; it was much more like a mildly reverent curiosity. It would make survival sense for people to pay close attention to successful members of their society, but then again I’ve felt the same thing when watching a Duesenberg Torpedo Phaeton drive by, or when staying up late to watch a lunar eclipse. My brain evidently finds rarity to be fascinating (along the lines of ‘fascinum’, a bewitchment or evil spell); in Mr. Greene’s case, his rarity lay in both his talent and his proximity, and my reflex was in fact one of fascination.

But even at that I had at least tried to be circumspect, because I feel that just like everyone else, public persons deserve to be treated with respect for their privacy in the course of the mundane portions of their lives, such as when washing their hands, playing with their kids, or waiting for a plane.

The thing is, I know from personal experience that being fascinating isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. I have a cavernous hemangioma in my throat, and whenever I go to a new dentist I’m subjected to the same old script, “Hey, everybody, come take a look at this thing in this guy’s throat; it’s really weird! Oh… you don’t mind us treating you like a freak of nature, do you?” You see, it’s not so glamorous when you realize that people also think that roadkill is fascinating.

So celebrities attract attention because humans admire rarity, and we stare for confirmation.

But as far as I could tell, I wasn’t rare, talented, shiny, uniquely configured, or decaying on the side of the road, so what was Mr. Greene trying to confirm? Did I look hungry?

And worst of all, what if he ended up sitting behind me on the plane?

Yeeg.

* * *

Well, my boss had finished checking in, so I couldn’t keep hiding. I gathered my courage, stood up from behind the counter, and much to my relief, Mr. Greene had left the reception area. I was pretty sure that I had just caught the back of his head passing out of sight to the right, down the hallway leading to the men’s room. Just to make sure (and dang me anyway for a fool), I took a look over my shoulder as I was walking past the hallway… and he was standing right there, staring at me again as I walked by!

Criminitlies! What was with this guy!

I snapped my eyes forward (ouch), and realized that I had no idea whether he was following me or had decided to continue on into the men’s room.

And wasn’t he hosting some spooky TV show or other? Maybe all that strangeness was getting to him. It was certainly getting to me.

I worried a little longer then decided that there was nothing to do but act as if everything were normal… well, as normal as it can be when some celebrity or other won’t stop staring at you.

As you can see, my particular brand of surrender isn’t the kind where you actually get to give up and let go. It’s more like the kind where you stop trying to keep from giving up, and you just go ahead and live with things being weird.

So my boss and I found a place to sit down then took turns guarding our bags while the other went to get his drinks and snacks. After some inconsequential chatter, he asked me (in a manner which I still think was unnecessarily creepy), “Why does Graham Greene keep staring and staring at you like that?” (I mean, he was really turning the knob up on the whole Lorre thing.)

I fought off the urge to look behind me, “Are you sure he’s not looking at you, or maybe at somebody over there?"

“No, no, no,” his eyes widened, “I’m sure of it. He was staring at you the whole time you were getting your pop. (They say weird stuff like that in Canada. Pop.) He watched you all the way over, and all the way back. Didn’t you see him?"

“No way! In fact, I’ve been doing my damnedest not to look anywhere near him, ever since you first pointed him out. Is he still looking at me?"

“Yesssss. I can see him from the corner of my eye. He’s staring right at the back of your head. He keeps making his eyes tiny.”

“Are you putting me on?"

“Not at all. Look for yourself.”

By that time, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I just had to know.

I was a study in subtlety. I casually stretched so I could look around, first peering way over to my left, and then craning way over to my right, and finally acting like I had to get the kinks out of my neck, so I could take a look right behind me. Sure enough, he had taken a seat near the wall, and had turned his chair so he could sit just a little bit sideways and aim right in my direction. I resumed my position, “Oh, man. Why me?"

“Don’t worry about it. He probably thinks you’re famous, or maybe he wonders if you’re indigenous. I’m sure he’s not mad at you.”

“Maybe he thinks I’m shooting mind control rays at his head.”

“Why don’t you ask him? Go on. Get it over with.”

“And say what? ‘Excuse me Mr. Greene, but I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve been staring at me all evening, and it’s making me hot’.”

“Oh yes, that would be rude. It’s much better to have a crazy man on the plane with us.”

“Okay, okay. Give me a minute to think up something reasonable.”

My boss looked at his watch, “It doesn’t matter; we have to go catch our flight.”

And Mr. Graham Greene said nothing as he watched me walk out of the lounge and out of his life. Ungrateful bastard, after all we had meant to each other! Knowing him as well as I do, he probably thinks that I’ll come crawling back to him someday.

Not me, baby!

He can just find some other stranger to be the object of his inexplicable attentions.

I don’t miss him.

Not one bit.

Nosiree.

He can keep his precious secrets to himself.

Sigh.

Endnote

One person who read this story told me that they hadn’t realized that I was gay. So I re-read it, and was all like, “Alright, yeah, I get it... but no. I was just uncomfortable with the situation, and therefore sarcastic and insensitive. I’ve been told that’s not the same thing.” Now, what I wanted to say was, “My boyfriend tells me that’s not the same thing,” because that would be funny… right?

Yeah, maybe not.

[Sharing a Ride} <>in process