A. and I are on vacation in a tropical location. The major tourist part of the island is like a military base or fortified parking garage or some other tough nut to crack. It is not so much that it is military or industrial looking as it is rock solid.
A show has just finished (something theatrical and in the water off the beach) and we’re retiring to a very large buffet area for hors d’oeuvres and drinks (while the staff sets up the banquet hall). A. and I are milling around, muttering smart-ass remarks about people under our breath when who should we see but race car driver and NASCAR champion Jeff Gordon.
We go over to talk to him and I explain that we’ve met before. (“My girlfriend in high school introduced us, remember?”) He doesn’t blow us off. Actually, he’s quite cordial even if he’s a little confused. He does remember me but only vaguely; can’t say that I blame him, it’s been years since we last met. What’s most strange to me is that we’re in this crowd of hundreds of people and no one else recognizes him. It’s like we have this celebrity figure all to ourselves.
Jeff and I don’t actually have that much to talk about. We quickly run out of the run-of-the-mill introductory small talk and I ask him what he’s been driving off the track these days. He’s having trouble remembering all the details though. He knows it’s a brand new Dodge Charger with some graphics work, a lowering kit, and an after market cam but he’s got some problems remembering how many horses he’s getting out of the engine, the torque… That sort of thing. (On the other hand, his girlfriend starts to rattle of numbers and ratios like it’s her job.) I’m trying to bait him to get me to quiz me on my vehicle but he doesn’t take it. He just sips his drink and eventually the staff starts to usher us in for the banquet.