I was at the gym about an hour ago. Reached my favorite weight machine at the same time as another guy. Blond, curly hair. He looked at me. “I know you,” he said.
“Um …”
“I know you.”
“I don’t think so,” I replied.
“I know your face.”
“You sure?” I said.
“What do you do for a living?”
“Sports writer,” he said.
“That’s it!” he said. “Jim Rome’s show, right!”
“Wow,” I said. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“You were sometimes OK on that,” he said—100-percent serious.
“Oh. Thanks.”
We talked a bit about Rome, who he loves. And the show, which he loves. He said, “Who were you on with?”
“Mike Freeman?” I said.
“Is that the black guy?”
“Yup.”
A few more seconds of light conversation, then, “Where do you think you go after you die?”
“What?”
“Where do you think you go after you die?”
“Man,” I said. “I’m a Jewish guy. I don’t really wanna have a religious conversation.”
We fist bumped.
And that was that.
