Late in the previous century, I was a rather well-known actor in Washington, D.C. I was no longer young, but I was not yet ancient, either. And I very much enjoyed being recognized around town, and even stood the occasional drink — the enjoyment of it being kind of embarrassing now to recall.
However, also in those days (just to keep me humble!), I was apparently the spitting image of a world-famous American author, who by then had been dead for many years, something one would have thought most people knew. Yet people often mistook me for him, which nettled me at the time, even though it punctured my immodest vanity in a healthy way.
One May evening, fragrant with spring flowers and the famous humidity still in abeyance, I was quite unavoidably late for a dinner date at Martin’s in Georgetown, one of Washington’s oldest and most venerable watering holes. The lady in question had been gently chided by me on many another occasion for being late, which she invariably was.
However, upon this night, she had made a Herculean effort (her words!), and had arrived at Martin’s, sweating only slightly, on the dot. And I was not there to be suitably impressed! She justifiably thought: “Aha!”
But being a basically lovely person, she did not sharpen her talons. She would simply be content to see me chastened.
I had been delayed by a fraught and overlong rehearsal. I’d then been trapped in rush-hour traffic. And finally, there was simply no parking anywhere near Martin’s, and I had to settle for a space almost a mile uptown. This was in the innocent age before cellphones.
I was therefore hoofing it down Wisconsin Avenue as fast as I could manage, hoping she’d not given up and gone home, and I’d gotten to a strip of jewelry stores that never seemed to have any customers. All their doors were propped open to catch the hyacinth-laden zephyrs, and out of one of them a small Pakistani gentleman erupted and ran straight at me, declaiming in that lovely, lilting accent:
“I know you! I know you!”
“Oh! I doubt it,” I began, modestly.
“Yes! Yes! I know you!” he sang. “You are Irving Hemingway!”
“Oh, no, I’m …” But then I decided not to disappoint the guy. “Well actually, Irving passed on some years ago. I’m his younger brother, Floyd,” I said.
“I know! I know,” trilled the little fellow, retreating back into his shop, still beaming at me from ear to ear.
Now laughing, I ran the rest of the way to Martin’s. My friend met me at the door, and upon hearing my tale of woe and amusement, laughed and laughed, kissed me, and signaled the waiter for two more martinis. And it turned into a wonderful evening.
All good dates should start with laughter, I guess, especially if you’re late. And lo these eons later, I still often wonder whatever became of Irving and Floyd Hemingway.
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