With Clint Eastwood

Elaine and I were in a specialty foods store on the Upper West Side. “She used to live here,” I announced to no one in particular. A glass case holding rare books stood at the front of the store, with two hardcover copies of Steven Millhauser’s Voices in the Night on the bottom shelf, each copy looking four or five times as thick as our paperbacks.

I went to the register to buy three sloes and found the cashier beside himself. “Clint Eastwood is in the store,” he said. And Clint Eastwood was on oxygen. I turned around, and there was Clint Eastwood. He was tall, and he was on oxygen. I asked the cashier to throw in two packs of Pall Malls. He also added a sheet of Forever stamps, and a second partial sheet.

Clint Eastwood was now right behind me, waiting to pay. I thought of turning and saying something like “Much respect,” but I can’t claim to feel much respect for Clint Eastwood. I don’t even know the guy. And I remember that bit with the chair.

I paid in cash and left. The bill was sixty-one-something, so maybe the stamps hadn't been a gift.

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