Just as I have a "Tell me everything" tattoo that strangers can spot, I have a related invisible sign over my head that broadcasts, "Ask me." So folks do. No matter where I go. All the time. Even in Paris.
Why?
Lately, as I traverse the streets of this wonderful city, drivers and pedestrians alike feel a need to stop and query me. (By the way, I am now officially a "ma'am.") I have been asked items including, but not limited to, the following:
- location of the Centennial Health Club
- location of the Ryman
- the time
- distance on Interstate 40 from here to Memphis
- location of the nearest Krispy Kreme
- location of the nearest Bank of America ATM
Here's what's scary: I always know the answer. Even the ATM question (although, I should confess, if they'd asked about First Tennessee, I would have been clueless).
Now I've been wondering why I have this mysterious pull on people. And I started to think: perhaps it stems from where I walk. People likely turn to me because I am the only pedestrian who is (a) there (b) seemingly employed or (c) sober.
But then the other night I walked down to Samurai Sushi. It sits on Elliston between two teeming nightclubs. There were many people out and about. I was contemplating the wonderful meal I was about to savor, a Choo Choo roll that combines sushi with fruit. Fabulous. I'm picturing it here for your pleasure.
On the sidewalk with me were many folks, most of whom seemed to be fine, upstanding and dare I say sober citizens. One well-dressed man in his late 30s approached me and inquired about the location of Church Street.
This blew my theory. Out of all the pedestrians, why me?
When people approach me, I usually suspect a sinister motive. I worry that I look like an easy mark, a sucker. This troubles me greatly. Sometimes people do make a beeline for me for the sole purpose of panhandling. But mostly I just end up fielding questions about directions and restaurants.
So I have decided to accept my fate of public reference maven, which is something I secretly kind of dig about myself.
And so it was that I ran over to the Belcourt Theater box office today to get tickets to a show. I parked in the fire lane, car still idling, and ran up to the front door. Another woman was standing there. The door was locked.
"Do you work here?" she asked me.
"No, I don't," I replied. I was more than clear on this point. "I came to buy tickets. But apparently they're closed."
Undaunted, the woman asked me a series of questions. Do they rent out this place? What's the seating capacity? What kind of shows do they put on here?
Turned out she is a sales manager for a local hotel and wants to talk to the Belcourt staff about some kind of corporate alliance.
I answered her questions, but I tried to stress that the answers I provided were not necessarily those of the Belcourt management. I just hang out there a lot.
We wished each other a good day and I was about to get in my car but I figured, if anyone could tell me why, why I provoke such inquiries, this woman could give me an answer.
I was struggling with how to phrase this question but she helped me out: "Thanks for the information -- you looked like you knew what was going on."
I guess I can live with that.
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