“Don’t you know who I am?”
The answer to that question is almost always, “No.” And, can usually be followed by one of the following phrases, and stop it, I don’t care, or get the hell out of here. Most of the time, when someone says it, it means, I’m a nobody, and I want to be somebody. Pay attention to me. I’m a midlevel cube farmer in the valley, but I want to be more. I heard a man say it once, and he was a somebody. His name was Bob.
I was 19 years old, and a student at Richland College.
It had all started with a panicky phone call from one of my gay friends, and by gay I don’t mean happy. Back in the day, before cell phones and text messages, at any moment, I could get one of those calls. Liza Minelli was in rehab again, there were size 15 pumps on clearance somewhere, Tina was coming in concert, I need a ride Hunky’s Burgers… It was always something.
“Get over here right now,” he pleaded.
“I’m busy, I have to study. I don’t have time for this right now. Like, no…” These were my standard responses to Warren.
“Please,” a dramatic begging tone tinged Warren’s voice, “I don’t know if I can hold him off much longer.” I heard the sound of breaking glass and a loud male voice in the background.
