I know your face!

A story about two strangers who aren't really strangers and the memory of a loved one

Photo by Nguyen Dang Hoang Nhu on Unsplash

Everyday I’m hustlin’, just like Rick Ross. But one recent overcast Monday morning I was hustlin’ so hard I arrived at the Post Office ten minutes before it opened.

My immediate instinct was to kill time. But how? Those ten minutes weren’t going to kill themselves, not very fast anyway. And to paraphrase Ice Cube, killing time ain’t necessary, but it is easy, assuming you can connect to the internet.

I took out my phone. Was this mission to kill ten minutes an assignment for the hurly-burly of Twitter, where edge lords and outrage accounts perform their symbiotic dance for my attention? Or, was I in the mood for the Dopamine parade of TikTok?

“I know your face.”

I put my phone back in my pocket, and looked up to see a man I did not know looking at me.

“I know your face,” the man said again. “Your face is very familiar.”

Oh shit, I thought, here we go again. Another day, another stranger who thinks I’m famous, even though they don’t know, or won’t say, which celebrity I’m supposed to resemble. This shit never stops.

“You look dead.”

Dead? Was this man trying to say I looked like The Grateful Dead front man Jerry Garcia? I’ve been tagged with that one a few times. Or, was he suggesting that I was some sort of zombie? Or, maybe he had this idea that I was zombie Jerry Garcia—The Grateful Walking Dead.

“You’re dead,” he said again.

“Huh?”

“You’re dead.”

“Excuse me.”

“Dad,” he said.

The man had a thick Indian accent. I couldn’t quite tell if he was saying dead or dad, but the more he said it, the more it sounded like dad, rather than dead.

“Your face is my customer,” he said.

“Huh?”

“Your dad is my customer,” he said. “Twenty years he comes to my restaurant. Twenty years, all the time. But I haven’t seen him in a few years.”

“My dad?”

“Yes. You have his face.”

I touched my face. I’ve always been very possessive of my face because, well, it’s my face. But I’ve been told many times over the years that I have my father’s face. On more than a few occasions, people who knew my dad recognized me as his son, even though they’d never met me before.

“I look at you and I think to myself, it’s him! But I know it’s not him because you are too young.”

I smiled. At this point in my life, it’s nice when someone says I’m too young.

“But I can’t stop thinking, I know this face, I know the face of my customer. Do you eat Indian food?”

“All the time. I love Indian food.”

“You know Anarbagh? We are Woodland Hills. We are Beverly Hills. We are Westlake Village. We are Encino.”

“I’ve been to Anarbagh in Encino a bunch of times.”

“You go with your father?”

“Probably, yes.”

“Your father is sound man, right? He travels the world. He does Olympics, the Pope, right?”

A chill ran down my spine. My father was a sound man. Actually, he was the world’s greatest sound man, but that’s another story. He did the sound whenever the Pope visited the U.S. He worked on the Olympics too.

“That sounds like my dad,” I said.

“I miss his face in my restaurant.”

I miss my dad’s face in my life. Unfortunately, looking in the mirror at my face doesn’t help, and while pictures are good, they usually leave me with that melancholy feeling.

“I’m sorry to tell you this,” I said, “but he passed away several years ago.”

“Oh no. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“Your father was joy, always joy. He loved my food.”

I couldn’t agree more. My dad was joy, and he loved all kinds of food, including Indian, especially the garlic naan bread.

“You live nearby?” the man asked.

“Yeah, this is my local Post Office.”

“You come to Anarbagh Woodland Hills. I want to see your face in my restaurant. I miss your dad.”

The man reached into his pocket and handed me a flyer with a coupon for 15 percent off.

Evidently, the restauranteur was hustlin’ everyday too, just like me and Rick Ross. But I didn’t mind the hustle. Actually, I admired the hustle, and if Dad were here he would’ve admired it too. Then he would’ve ordered some garlic naan bread.

TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK!

One of the joys of writing Situation Normal is hearing from readers after every story! If you have something nice to say, please feel free to drop a comment bellow👇

Or, if you’re the type of person who needs a prompt, consider the following questions:

1. How do you kill time? Bonus points if the answer is reading Situation Normal.

2. Do people say you look like your parents?

3. Would you watch a television show about a jam band trying to make it through the zombie apocalypse? And if so, why isn’t AMC developing The Grateful Walking Dead? Or, would The Walking Deadheads be a better title?

4. Have you ever reheated garlic naan and spread cream cheese on it? If not, give it a try, and if anyone asks, tell them Larry Estrin sent you.

5. Are you hustlin’ everyday, or do you take days off from hustlin’?

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READING RECOMMENDATION

I’ve always been curious about small town living, probably because I’ve lived most of my life in big cities like Los Angeles and New York. But the truth is I’ll probably never live in a small town, and if I do, it won’t be in a rural community with fewer than 1,000 people. So, in order to satisfy my curiosity, I read Shangrilogs by Kelton Wright. Her newsletter is smart and funny and Kelton has a way of translating small town living to a city slicker audience. I’m a fan, and if you’re curious about what it’s like to move to a small town, Shangrilogs is worth checking out!