July 28 — Clark Kent
“I know your secret.”
The woman on the other side of the bar was talking to me. Everyone in the room had been drinking, including her. It was after midnight. I turned to her with a bemused look.
“I know who you are,” she said.
I raised my eyebrows. “Oh yeah?”
“You’re Clark Kent!”
I laughed and began to lock up the beer fridge. It wasn’t the first time someone had thought that about my thick-rimmed glasses. I felt flattered, but I was tired and hoped that no further human interaction would be required of me that day.
I had no such luck. Another woman next to her said that maybe I was Peter Parker. They were having trouble remebering which was which: Superman and Spiderman.
“I’m too old to be Peter Parker,” I said, trying to humbly brush it off. Again, no good. Their Spiderman knowledge didn’t even extend to the latest film. The last they knew of Spiderman, Tobey Maguire was hooking up with Kirsten Dunst, and he sure as heck wasn’t in high school.
