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I  was wandering around the Village, still high from the show, looking for a beer. I ducked into a small neighborhood bar  with a neon Budweiser sign in the window. It was dark and cool. The TV was playing a baseball game, it was fairly empty. I sat down at the bar and asked the bartender for a Corona, with lime.

I looked up at the TV and began to get interested in what the Yankees were doing. Apparently right now they weren’t doing too much, they were losing 3 to 0. I heard murmuring of voices around me, sounded like mostly men. No high pitched giggles, no smell of perfume, that was ok with me. I’d just sat in a theater with about 300 women all emitting more pheromones than a college guy at a wet t-shirt night in Ft. Lauderdale.

 I heard words from conversations around the bar drifting toward me. “Petit’s through, can’t pitch worth a damn anymore”…

“I can’t go home she’s too pissed off at me.”

“So then what did you say?” “I don’t remember, I was so wasted…”

“I don’t think the baseball jokes went over too well…”

The last comment was said with a British accent. I froze in my chair,  just kept  looking at the TV screen, not daring to turn around. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. No way dude.

I wished desperately for super-sonic hearing, or whatever James Bond was using these days.  I tried to pick up the rest of the conversation filtered through what everyone else was saying.

“Yeah, you can’t come to their bloody country and make fun of their bloody National sport.”  Laughter.

“That packet of biscuits on the stage was a bit odd. They don’t do that in London.”

“I like how you kicked ‘em right off too.”

“Shit I couldn’t pick them up, woulda split my trousers.  Shoulda picked ‘em up and tossed ‘em at them.” More laughter.

I carefully picked up my beer and took a swig, while maneuvering my eyes around the bar, trying not to look like I was looking. It was him. I looked away again. Blond spikey hair, hint of eyeliner, black shirt, black leather jacket, resting one arm on the bar, hand curled around a pint, cigarette dangling from his mouth…it was him.

If I went over to talk to him I was going to get the public persona, and get brushed off, and ruin his nice relaxing evening, or get laughed at as I left the bar.  He certainly wasn’t going to come over to me and say “Wasn’t that you in the third row? God you’re beautiful. Let’s get out of here.”  I just sat there, paralyzed. I wanted so badly just to say “thank you.” Thank you for changing my life, for giving me friends, for giving me something to laugh at when I thought I had nothing. For sparking my creativity, for making it ok to be different.  Basically to say what about a million other woman wanted to say to him.

“There’s a party somewhere in Chelsea we can hit if you want. Chap works for Joe Boxer. Hey maybe we can get some free knickers.” Laughter.

“I don’t know, still feeling a bit sneezy, might just head back.  Make a few phone calls, see what’s on telly, check my messages.  I’ve got to be on a plane right after the show tomorrow, that’s gonna be a long one.”

“How long’s the flight to New Zealand?”

“I think 24 hours, yeah?. Hopefully I’ll sleep through most of it, I’m so tired.”

He looked tired, from what I saw. The hazy yellow lighting in the bar made him look jaundiced, and exaggerated the dark circles under his eyes, unsuccessfully covered with makeup.

“I hear those Kiwis know how to party.”

“I’ve been there before, they’re really cool people. Should be fun. You think my mobile’s going to work there?”

“I dunno – have them look into it.”

“Yeah I asked, forgot what they said though.” Soft chuckle.

“Think you’ve had too much cough syrup.”

“Yeah”. Laughter.

I was almost done with my beer. I had been watching the game but not seen a thing. I had no idea who was at bat, what the score was, or what had happened.  One of his lines popped into my head, “don’t know what to DO!”. I smiled to myself, as  I did whenever I thought of his lines, no wonder people thought I was odd.

“You going to do the same thing tomorrow?”

”Yeah, basically, gonna try moving around some stuff, changing a little bit.  You know it seems like I  recognize a few faces from Philly and Boston. That’s a bit scary.”

“Face it mate, you are loved.”

“Yeah, but by who?” More laughter.

I slowly get down off my bar stool. I swear there’s no graceful way to get off one of those things. I’m lucky I didn’t just fall to the floor. I wonder if he saw me move. I motioned to the bartender, who was watching the game and discussing it with a few of the patrons. He came over as I lay a five down on the bar and said, “the British gentleman at the end of the bar there, this is for his next drink.” The bartender smiled, said ok, and took the five.  He put the customary upside down shot glass in front of Eddie, and said “this one’s on the lady, sir”, motioning to where I had been sitting.

Eddie looked over to the empty stool and back at the bartender. The bartender must have told him I had just left, because he looked toward the door.  He looked puzzled for a minute, and then turned back to his friend. I imagined that he said, “yeah, now I’m loved by invisible women”.

 I took one last peek at him through the neon Bud sign, and walked away.

Sometimes you only get one chance to say “thanks”.