For the Tall Tales collection

Then there was the time Jim Harrison came for dinner. Ok, not the only time, but I was on duty and could not join them at the table, which table included Jim and his lady, Bob and Betty, and Mary Muirhead with her gentleman friend. Bob and Jim were trying to make a serious dent in the wine inventory. The middle room had emptied, and their six-top was the last table in the dining room, but I still had to keep an eye on the bar, so I just drifted back to the table now and again, trying to keep track of an ever more freewheeling conversation.

Toward the end of the evening, the currents took me back to their table. I stood next to Mary, waiting and listening. The banter at the table tapered off, into one of those odd silences which occur when everyone reaches some conversational closure simultaneously. I stood there. The lady next to Jim noticed me, looked up and said, quite loudly, "You know, you remind me of Johnny Wadd." I am seldom compared to porn stars. I arched an eyebrow into the silence, which had suddenly acquired a degree of tension. "No, no, no, no, NO" she said, "You really do, you remind me of Johnny Wadd." Everyone looked at me. A fraction of a pause-- just stretching the silence--and I replied. "Welllllll," I said, "I'm not short all over." The ladies rolled their eyes heavenward, those with Ys in their chromosomes pounded the table, and I walked away with one of my best lines, ever. Martin