Kevin's Khronicles

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Living in a small mountain community has it’s advantages and disadvantages... there’s the advantage of no congestion and traffic lights, yet the disadvantage of having to wait until 2010 before most of us receive DSL for our internet service.

To live in such a community; to work at one’s own pace and leisure (and can one really call what they do work if they enjoy doing it?) has the drawback of being cut off from the rest of the world and what the reality is for most people down in the valley.

I freely admit I live in a fantasy world; that I continue to turn whatever those fantasies may be for me at the time into concrete realities. That was my choice when I was a child and could comprehend what the real world had to offer with all it’s unpleasantries, and what life had to offer to those who took the road less traveled.

I’ve never regretted turning my back on a 9 to 5 existence for a life less ordinary, but sometimes, when I do happen to venture out into the real world from my mountain retreat and shun the Rip Van Winkle effect for the day (or several days when I have to be in Los Angeles on business), I am surprised (although I don’t know why) when I’m confronted by the slightest bit of reality...

Case in point.. at least twice a month I make the effort to travel the 40 or so miles down the mountain to stock up on food supplies. This may seem odd to city folks (and believe me, being a Brooklyn boy, I still fight the country mouse image), but after 15 years you get used to the routine, just as I can easily flow right back into the city groove upon landing in New York.

Recently, I made the bi-monthly trek into our nearest town of Visalia and went about going to the usual stores for the supplies. This has become so routine, I can do it in my sleep.

But something was different this time... as I was rounding an aisle in one of the grocery stores, someone else was coming around the corner in the opposite direction. Our carriages didn’t collide, but as the man veered off, he mumbled, Excuse me, sir, going by me without breaking stride.

A short time later, as I was in another aisle deciding which items to place in my shopping cart, a woman breezes by, exclaiming, Pardon me, sir, and off she went before I could comment.

What is with this Sir stuff, I thought. Do I look like I am at an age where I should be called Sir by those that are younger or at the very least, not that much older than I am?

And it wasn’t just these two incidents. The moniker was bestowed upon me by the young woman at the cash register, and then at other places I happened to be shopping at that day.

Was this something new, or was it that I was hearing it for the first time, never really paying much attention until now that people were calling me this for quite sometime?

Since childhood, all I did was hang out with the elderly, and never thought much about it. I was never comfortable with those of my own age. I found them to be childish and immature. Even my girlfriends, with rare exception, were always older than me. In fact, I happen to like gray hair and wrinkles. As a boy I can remember watching my friend, Charlton Heston as Moses in The Ten Commandments, coming down off the mountain after meeting God. What a great head of gray hair, I thought. Man! I can’t wait until I get my own gray hair like that!

I suppose back then I associated gray hair with wisdom and being distinguished looking ( I still do). But as I look at myself now, the only gray I have is that in my goatee. As for wrinkles, they haven’t arrived yet, and most people upon hearing just how old I really am, comment that I could easily pass for 10 years younger, and perhaps more if I shaved off the facial hair.

So, why are people all of a sudden calling me, Sir? That’s something you call my father, not me. I haven’t earned that title yet. I’m still young, I tell myself as I gaze into the rearview mirror and still see an ageless me.

And then I realize all of a sudden as I make my way back up the mountain that all this Sir stuff really isn’t new, but in actuality I wasn’t paying attention until now. Going back to some of the recent incidents over the past year, not only have I been called Sir, but worse things followed...

When attending social functions where one must dress accordingly and know which utensil goes with which course of the meal, I accept the Sir moniker because that’s the code. But not when I’m in an average store dressed in your everyday average attire of jeans, t-shirt and sneakers. You don’t get noticed enough to be called Sir by anyone. People usually brush past you with a grunt.

I recall the book signings I’ve been doing. Yes, I’m greeted with courtesy, but now I remember... I was called Sir at times, even by those who came from whatever distances (some actually traveling across the country to meet me) to receive an autograph copy of my book.

And then there was the film premiere of Yesterday’s Dreams... I was called Sir there as well.

And all these incidences; each and every time, I would cut in with, It’s okay to call me Kevin, to the (sometimes) utter shock and amazement of the public.

But that’s the way I want it. That’s the way I decided long ago that I wanted to be accessible to the public and not become a recluse; a hermit. That’s why I try to answer all my fan mail, even if it’s a sentence or paragraph or two, because I know it means a lot to the fan.

Perhaps the worse case of having to face being the elder statesman is not so much the Sir part, but when the guy who recognizes you (you can tell by the look in his eye and the smile on his face) has to come rushing up to you and with an enthusiastic exclamation, proclaim as he’s about to make an introduction, I remember when I was a kid and you cycled the Great Wall of China, and now I’d like you to meet my son (or daughter or both or many of each)...

And you put on a happy face, and smile through the introductions and listen to your adventures from his (and sometimes her) point of view, and look at his (or her) child with bewilderment etched on their face, wondering just who you are or what exactly did you do again?...

I really don’t mind those times, and if I happen to be carrying my briefcase, I’ll pull out an 8x10 (or two) photo of that event and sign it and wish them well, for I had been responsible for an everlasting memory, touching their lives for that one brief moment.

But the incident haunts me. Was it really that long ago when I cycled the Great Wall of China? It seems as if it were only yesterday. Where did the time go? Lance Armstrong was just an 18-year-old kid when I did that and now he’s retired...

And on and on the vicious cycle goes.

But I believe I will fair better than most, because I’ve had the right frame of mind about aging since childhood. I will be proud of the gray hair when it arrives as well as the wrinkles, because I will have earned them. Just like I earned all the scars on my body (they each have a story to tell). All of it makes me who I am and what I have become. They show the life I have lead upon this earth.

I used to hear from elders that one day I’ll wake up and be somewhere I never thought I’d be. I could never understand what they meant. I wake up everyday and notice who I am. What will be different one day from the next?

And now I know... I awoke one day and was called Sir... with love.

Kevin