Fall, 1979. On a trip to New York City-- my first with Marsha.
We rode a hansom cab thru Central Park, saw "The Elephant Man" on Broadway, had lunches at the Russian Tea Room and Cafe Borgia, and dinners at Sardi's and Marchi's. We roamed Times Square and 42nd Street, and stopped in at Playland-- the old Hubert's Museum. Lotsa touristy stuff and soaking up the sights and sounds and smells of the city.
It was a wonderful, indulgent, long weekend. We prowled bookstores up and down 5th Avenue, and walked to the East Village, where we window-shopped and people-watched. Eventually we wandered into Washington Square Park, and sat on a bench to listen to some people playing guitars.
A semi-toothless, wrinkled, elderly African American man wearing a battered old fedora and dressed in dirty, disheveled clothes approached us and began to ask for some change.
He was the very essence of "beat". The quintessential, colorful street bum. He was mostly focused on Marsha. "Not today, buddy," I said, leaning toward him. He directed his gaze at me and suddenly stood completely straight, removing his hat. "OH, MY GOOD GOT-A-MIGHTY! IT'S GREGORY PECK!" he bellowed in a voice like someone retching through a kazoo.
I certainly look *nothing* like Gregory Peck. In 1979 I looked even less like him. This old fellow was completely beside himself with glee, though, and was apparently absolutely convinced I was his film idol. He was trembling.
"Oh, Mister Peck! I love you, man! I seen all your movies! Gemmun's Agreement! Moby Dicks! Them Boys In Brazil! Poke Chop Hill! Kill The Mockin'bird! I seen 'em all! Oh, man--you the best! You my favorite!"
"I'm not Gregory Peck", I said. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you're mistaken."
"Oh! Oh... so... well... uh-huh; I get it", he said, winking and laying his finger alongside his nose.
"SHHHHH! I gotcha!", he whispered.
"You don' want nobody botherin' you, right? You... you IN-COB-NEATO, yeah?"
"O.K.! Shhh!" (Spoken even more softly.)
He hunched his shoulders and glanced theatrically around. He leaned in closer. "Can I git yo autograph, Mister Peck? Please? I wouldn't tell nobody, I promise! Not nobody!" he rasped, still sotto voce, zealously guarding my identity.
I swore him to silence, and wrote "With Best Wishes, Gregory Peck" on a torn scrap of some advertising handbill he produced from his jacket pocket. I also gave him a couple of bucks.
He thanked me effusively, shook my hand, mimed broadly that his lips were sealed, and dramatically tiptoed away-- after mumbling "And you have yourself a wonderful afternoon, Mrs. Peck" to Marsha.
Once in a while-- usually on late, late nights or real early in the morning when I'm barely conscious and bleary-eyed, hair awry, stumbling around in my pajamas or underwear, looking decidedly un-Hollywood-- but probably very in-cob-neato-- Marsha will yell out "GREGORY PECK! OH, MY GOT!" and we'll practically wet ourselves. Ehhh... maybe you had to be there. I hope he got himself a nice sandwich.
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