I wouldn’t say that I look like an everyman. I have dependable features: a slight, could-be-anybody frame; non-descript wire glasses; really short hair that could be brown, but might be reddish in the right light; eyes that look a different color depending on what I wear.

Maybe I look like an every-otherman, possibly an every-thirdman. Point being, I’m recognized with amusing regularity. Strangers see me, and I fit the template of another person, a person they know. This happened the other day in Meijer, a grocery regional to the Midwest.

“Do I know you?” the portly, frumpy man asked. I had seen him coming directly at me from the next produce aisle over. At first I thought he might be bee-lining for the greens stacked up behind me, but a niggling feeling told me his approach meant an impending and uncomfortable encounter.

I paused, not quite sure how to answer the question. As questions go, that one always struck me as odd. Inevitably, I don’t know the person asking. That’s not a surprise; I have a cruddy memory for names and faces. But it’s the framing of the question I find weird. How am I supposed to know if the person asking it knows me? My ability to read minds trails even my meager skills at remembering names and faces.

“No, I don’t think so,” I finally answered. He looked crushed.

“Are you sure you’re not Richard Applebaum?” came his reply. He perked up, like a Stanley parting the dense flora of the produce aisles to find his Livingstone.

Again, how does one answer such an awkward question? If I were this apparently handsome devil Applebaum, wouldn’t I be pretty sure of it?

“No, I’m not, and yes, I’m sure.”

Crushed crept over his face again. “Okay … thanks … it’s just that you look really familiar,” he uttered, and slinked away.

Like I said, this was a touch uncomfortable, as any impromptu encounter with a complete stranger. But, the timing made it more chuckle-worthy than your usual “don’t-I-know-you,” and even a bit ironic. Just the day before, the wife-to-be and I had a long conversation about being mistaken for others, and how often it happens to both of us.

I don’t know who Richard Applebaum is, and may never meet him. But, when and if I do, I owe him an amusing anecdote.