The Bluefish Flush Flashback

(Originally published on 8/7/16)

It was a pleasant summer’s day in the Bronx—on the warm side but with low humidity, which sharply contrasted with yesterday’s soupy feel. On this agreeable morning, I was mistaken for a man named Malcolm; twenty-four hours earlier it was a fellow named Joe. While scam artists are legion in this town, I believe the two distinct individuals who thought I was Malcolm and Joe, respectively, really do know—although not especially well—a Malcolm and a Joe who somewhat resemble me.

I frequently cross paths with the elderly man who thought I was Malcolm. He always looked me over, like he had something on his mind. Well, now I know what it was. Okay, if I’m a dead ringer for Malcolm, he’s Ben Bernanke twenty years from now. As for Joe and the previous case of mistaken identity, I watched a stranger make a beeline toward me from a Broadway sidewalk under the El. I was sitting on a bench—in “Van Cortlandt Park’s Tail,” the sign says—when he approached me.

“Joe?” he said.

“Excuse me?” I replied.

“Joe?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Yes, no.”

“Sorry. I thought you were somebody else.”

And off he went—two ships that passed in the night. As I watched him heading south down Broadway, I remembered being stopped—in the vicinity of where he was headed—a couple of years back. It was by a man who thought I was—yes—Joe. It must have been him. I sure hope he finds the real Joe because, really, time waits for no man. Then again, maybe the scam revolves around finding an actual Joe and then taking it from there.

Happily, I encountered one man today who wanted to speak with me because I’m me, not Malcolm or Joe. I’ve run into this fellow before. His modus operandi: a recurring request for seventy-five cents. Not a dollar or fifty cents, but seventy-five cents. But, this morning, he threw me a curve and phrased it a bit differently. “Can you spare just three quarters?” he asked. Previously, when he asked me for seventy-five cents, I declined his request. He once asked me twice in the same day—in different locations within an hour’s time—believing, perhaps, I was Malcolm and then Joe. If nothing else, the man is tireless. I gave him a buck this time around and off he went without so much as a thank you. He was reasonably well dressed with a fanny pack (for all those quarters, I guess) and took off like a bat out of hell. He had something very specific in mind to do with that dollar.

Finally, after the seventy-five cents guy departed, I witnessed a young rat frolicking in the grass and flowers. An area squirrel seemed stunned by it—the rat was on its patch after all—and initially moved toward it. After a start and a stop in every direction on the compass, the squirrel thought better of it. Even squirrels are leery of rats apparently—regardless of their size.

But my adventures weren’t yet over. I had approximately eight blocks to go when I realized that I had to go. Fortunately, I’ve never had an accident in my adult incarnation, but there were a few close calls. The last one being about fifteen years ago and the byproduct of my favorite diner’s dinner special: bluefish. It tasted good as I recall but came with a post-dinner kicker a couple of hours later. A friend of mine experienced the very same thing and it has forevermore been deemed the “Bluefish Flush,” a natural enema like no other. Like last time, I made it just in time this time.