My best friend in junior high had an obsession with counting the links that separated her from celebrities.  She’d make complex maps, charts, and webs for each one.

"My father met M- at a party, M-’s mother-in-law works with E-, E- worked in a production company where he met F-, F-’s cousin is G-, G-’s brother-in law is P-, P- shook hands with X!  This makes me only six steps away from X---!!!"

Her favorite celebrity was X-.  I played the devil’s advocate.  I told her that I hated X-.

"Why bother with X-?  He could care less about you.  The guy next door matters much, much more to me.  He is real.  He can be reached."

We argued.  Kayla was so sensitive about X-.  When I insulted him, she acted like I insulted her.  I thought the whole thing was ridiculous.

In the end, Kayla won.  She married the guy next door.

*

Last night, I saw X- at a posh restaurant in the city.  There he was, like an asteroid fallen from the heavens, looking casual among the unknown masses.  He shared a table with one of his flunkies, eating something healthy.  It appeared to be salad and tofu.  He was waxed and gleaming, highly buffed with all that money can buy.

I contemplated calling Kayla on my cell phone even though I hadn’t talked to her for months.  I remembered that she was still as enthusiastic about the aging X- as she had been when he was at his prime.  I decided against it.  What would be the point?  I wasn’t in the mood to listen to her gleeful shrieks.

He and I made eye contact.  I passed my glance over him blankly.  I felt his gaze linger on me, but I turned away.  I vowed that I would never tell anyone that I sat in the same restaurant as X-, or that he looked at me.  I'm just not a celebrity person.

After I finished my meal, I made certain to walk right by his table with feigned obliviousness.  Even so, I suspect that I admit to his so-called importance by writing this, don't I?