Sort of Maybe Famous

by Michael Loyd Gray

     It had rained again but now it was clear and waning sunlight filtered through gaps in Tribeca’s old brick buildings. Water pooled on streets and red, green, and yellow from stoplights reflected in the pools. After coffee in a noisy café, I walked past industrial warehouses turned into ritzy lofts for hipsters, actors, artists — wannabes. I was probably as far culturally from my Beaver Island, a lonely speck in Lake Michigan, as one could be. From Tribeca, everything west, beginning with Jersey, was The Great Unknown.

      I found the little art gallery sandwiched among boutiques along the Hudson River. I’d promised to see Maggie’s work, her painting. Next to the gallery, a lanky young man about my age with a shock of black hair dangling over his eyes swept the sidewalk in front of a wine bar. He had to sweep his hair back to see the walk.

     A small sign above the door said Adolfo’s. There were tables and chairs piled together in a tangled mess. Mist that had settled among the taller buildings and over the river had dissolved. A few clouds lingered and the sun was trapped behind them. The street was cast in half-light, an amber tinge.

     It was a few minutes before the gallery opened and I watched the man sweep. He looked up at me. I smiled and he hesitated but smiled, too.

     “Waiting on the gallery,” I said, pointing to its door.

     “They’re always a little late.”

     “I see.”

     “Just so you know.”

     “Well, I have time. It looks like a fine day if the clouds lift.”

     He glanced up, as if remembering there was a sky.

     “More rain coming, I heard.”

     I took another look up.

     “Maybe so.”

     “Are you a friend of Walter and Stella?”

     I took that to mean the owners of the gallery.

     “That’s who owns it, the gallery?”

     “It is.”

     “I don’t know them. I just came to see a painting.”

     “Are you from around here?”

     “I’m from Michigan.”

     He stared at me a moment as if I’d announced I’d just rolled in off the boat from Oz.

     “You came from Michigan to see a painting?”

     “Not exactly. But while I’m here, I’ll look at the painting.”

     “Are you an art dealer?”

     “I’m not, no. Not much call for that where I’m from.”

    “But you’re here to see a painting, even though you’re not a buyer?”

    “Sounds kind of odd, I admit.”

    “Jesus – that’s a long way for a painting.”

    “I reckon so.”

    “Just one?”

     “But I know her — the artist.”

     “Somebody famous?”

     “I don’t know exactly.”

     He leaned his broom against a table.

     “You know her but don’t know if she’s famous?”

     “I don’t know how fame works in the art world.”

     He half-smirked but converted it to a smile.

     “If you’re famous in Tribeca, then you’re famous everywhere.”

     “That sounds about right, I suppose. Lots of famous people around here, I heard at the hotel.”

     His face brightened.

     “Fame is Tribeca. Robert DeNiro was here last night, in the bar.”

     “Is that right? Imagine that.”

     “I’ve seen Mick Jagger here, too.”

     “Did you meet him?”

     “Yeah, for sure. He’s a nice guy. Friendly as you please.”

     “Best frontman in rock,” I said. “And DeNiro just drops in casual-like?”

     “He lives nearby. This is his neighborhood, man.”

     “I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”

     “What’s your name.?”

     “Davis Underwood.”

     I offered my hand. His grip was firm. I guess I expected limp from a hipster, if that’s what he was. I wasn’t exactly sure what qualified as hipster. I was pretty sure there weren’t any on Beaver Island.

     “I’m Brody,” he said. “Brody Dalton.”

     “You own the bar, Brody?”

     “Oh, hell no. I couldn’t afford this place. This is Tribeca, you know. I’m the manager.”

     “Well, we all start someplace.”

     “And in Tribeca, if you aren’t rich, that’s often where you stay – at the start.”

     “I hear you. But dreams are still free.”

     “I’ll take that under advisement,” Brody said, grinning.

     I glanced at the gallery door and then my watch.

     “Sometimes Walter and Stella are more than just a little late,” Brody said. “They were in the bar last night, too. They stayed late.”

     “I get the picture.” I pointed at the tangle of chairs and tables. “You want some help with all that?”

     He looked at the pile and then me, skeptically.

     “Seriously?”

     “I’m not afraid to work, Brody.”

     “Is that some kind of Michigan slogan?”

     “No, that’s just how I roll, I guess.”

     “I think you’re a long way from home, Davis.”

     “Don’t I know it.”

     “Okay,” he said, after sizing up the tangled pile again. “Help me and I’ll give you a free beer. Maybe two.”

     “Guinness?”

     “Any kind you want, my friend.”

     “What’s the second beer depend on?”

     “How good the conversation is.”

     “Sounds about right.”

     After we set up the chairs and tables, we sat at the bar, the door locked behind us. Brody drank coffee and I sipped a Guinness. His staff would drift in soon. It was drinking during the day, in a bar, but I didn’t consider it day drinking. I had a purpose. Places to be and people to see. But a couple days to kill before I did business with Maggie’s foundation. She said I merited a few days off to see the sights. I wasn’t complaining about it.

     I told him the whole story, even the prison part.

     “Well, shit, Davis — that’s some tale alright. A year in the slammer and you weren’t even guilty. I can’t imagine it.”

     “You can’t. Trust me.”

     “So, this rich Maggie painter lady now wants you to give a talk at her charity’s board meeting?”

     “On Friday. I’m supposed to persuade them to help more average folks like me get back on their feet.”

     “You’re the poster boy.”

     I looked away.

     “I reckon I am at that.”

     “Can you pull it off?”

      I shrugged.

     “A man can only do his best and let the cards fall.”

     “More midwestern stoicism, Davis?

     “Common sense, I reckon. So, who owns this place? A guy named Adolfo?”

     “A guy named Terrence. Your basic rich Manhattan asshole. He owns several restaurants, too. One’s over by The Odeon.”

     “What’s the Odeon?”

     “A famous restaurant.”

     “I see. Everything around here seems to be famous.”

     “You’re catching on, my friend.”

     “And this asshole owner, he’s friends with DeNiro?”

     “Thick as thieves.”

     “How would he feel about these free beers?”

     “He doesn’t know what goes on in his bar day to day. He just owns it. Two different things for rich people.”

     “I reckon so,” I said, hoisting my Guinness.

     “Besides – you worked for the beers, right?”

     “I’d like to think I did, yeah.”

     “Maybe you’ll see DeNiro, if you come around at night.”

     “Think so?”

     “If he’s here, I’ll introduce you.”

     “He’d be okay with that?”

     “Within limits.”

     “What limits?”

     “It all depends. It’s a tricky business, rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous. There are rules — etiquette.”

     “I can just imagine.”

     “Maybe not, Davis.”

     “You’re probably right.”

     “You ever meet anybody famous?”

     “Not a one. Does Maggie count?”

     He mulled it.

     “Well, she has a painting in a good gallery. And she runs that foundation. And she’s rich. She’s maybe low-level famous. More rich than famous. No doubt she knows famous people because she’s rich. So, by association, sort of maybe famous.”

     “That’s a big distinction?”

     “This is Tribeca, Davis, the hip center of the Manhattan universe. There’s a pecking order to the fame and fortune.”

     “It’s like a whole other planet.”

     “Most days, yeah, it is. For sure.”

     A couple of young, pretty women arrived — servers to get the bar ready to open. Cuban American women, Brody said, with long glossy black hair pulled into dangling ponytails that swished like a horse’s tail swatting flies. They glanced at me at the bar with Brody and they smiled several times.

     “Friendly ladies,” I said.

     “They think you might be somebody.”

     “Like who?”

     He shrugged.

     “They don’t know. But they don’t want to miss out, just in case.”

     “What kind of famous do they think I could be?”

     He studied my face a few seconds.

     “Maybe an actor whose name they forget but the face seems familiar. You do kind of look like Edward Burns.”

       I had to think who that was.

     “Has he been in here?”

     “Probably. We get our share of actors.”

     “Edward Burns,” I said, finally remembering Saving Private Ryan. “Do you think so?”

     He studied my face.

     “Close enough, Davis. People see what they want to see.”

     The two servers glanced at me again and one said something to the other and they smiled and giggled.

     “Do they think I might be Edward Burns?”

     “Maybe. I have no idea what those two tamales think sometimes, if you get my drift. But they know you’re here before we open, drinking with me. So, they suspect you might be somebody.”

     “They’ll be disappointed.”

     “That’s not how to look at it, Davis. I won’t tell them who you are. I’ll keep it mysterious in case you come back when we open. See how that works?”

     I nodded.

     “But the truth comes out eventually.”

     “Truth has nothing to do with it.”

     “Why not?”

     “First off, people come to Tribeca – Manhattan in general — and get to know famous people, rich people, and that association can open doors and then for various reasons, they might become famous, too.”

     “You see any of that in my future, Brody?”

     “Fame? You never know. You want fame, you’ve come to the right place.”

     I finished my Guinness.

     “But what if everybody became famous?”

     “Is that a problem?”

     “Who would do the work around here?”

     “That’s easy to fix, Davis. There are always new non-famous people coming in to work who hope they move up to famous.”

     “Kind of like a cycle.”

     “Yeah, a cycle alright. The fame cycle.”

     I got up to go and Brody let me out front.

     “Maybe I’ll see you later, Brody.”

     “Remember – you too might become famous. But it’s a major commitment.”

     “Sounds like it, for sure.”

     “Lots of work and upkeep, my friend. High maintenance.”

     “Kind of like a foreign sports car,” I said on the way out the door.

     “Exactly. So, see you tonight – Ed Burns?”

     “Well, you just never know.”

     “Don’t overthink it,” he said. “Go with the flow.”

     “Be whoever I want to be, you mean?”

     “Why not? Be Edward Burns, if that works for you. He’s probably off making a film somewhere. Life’s a costume party, isn’t it?”

     “Sometimes, yeah, it seems that way. For sure.”

     “Somebody once said you are who you pretend to be.”

     “Somebody famous, no doubt.”

     “Of course.”

     One of the Cuban gals glanced my way and winked.

     “I think Brasilia like you,” he said

     “Brasilia? That’s really her name?”

     “It is now. She’s ready in case she gets famous for something.”

     “Like what?’

     “Whatever comes along.”

     “Seems pretty random.”

     “Yeah, but in Tribeca, you got to be ready to catch the train when it pulls up.”

     “I see,” I said, nodding. “Well, I’ll be seeing you, Brody.”

     “I don’t doubt it.”

     After he closed the door, I checked the gallery next door. It had still not opened. Walter and Stella must have had a hard a night working at being famous. I looked up at dark clouds drifting in. Brody was probably right about the rain. I headed back to my hotel, stopping for a moment to appreciate Adolfo’s patio tables and chairs in their neat even rows. We’d done a good job of it.

     I glanced at the sky. The clouds had not lifted. If anything, they were darker, lower, and I figured a good hard rain was about to fall. I stopped for coffee in a crowded cafe. The windows had fogged over and people walking by were ghostly blurs. I was the only one sitting alone at a table. I looked around the café and listened to the simmering hum of voices. It was like being inside a beehive with more bees arriving all the time.

     A thirtyish woman, pretty, straw blond hair under a blue beret, sat down at a table next to mine. She sipped her coffee and glanced my way several times, once smiling, but I chalked that up to public etiquette, perhaps. Civility. We made eye contact again and I returned her smile.

     “I know I should know who you are,” she said, leaning into the aisle toward me.

     “You should? Why is that?”

     But I said it in a pleasant voice and remembered to smile again. She pivoted her chair toward me.

     “You probably get this a lot — people recognizing you when you’re just out minding your own business and all.”

     “Not as much as you might think.”

     “Really? I thought I recognized you right off.”

     “Did you?”

     “Well, not at the very first. I had to sneak a couple looks, of course. I hope you don’t mind.”

     “Not at all. It’s perfectly fine.”

    “You’re probably used to it all by now,” she said. “It must happen all the time.”

     I shook my head slowly and sipped my coffee.

     “I can’t say it does, to be honest.”

     “You’re just being modest.”

     “That’s me – modest.”

     “But of course, you must be proud of your work.”

     “Of course.” 

     She glanced around at other tables, the people deep into lively conversations. I felt guilt about letting this one go on. It had gotten away from me at the very start.

     “I’m Allison, by the way,” she said, and we shook hands. Hers was pink and warm. She wasn’t half bad to look at and her smile lit up the room.

     “I guess I don’t need an introduction,” I said, hoping she didn’t notice me wincing when I said it.

     “The thing is,” she said, lowering her voice, “I know your face from movies but not the name — sorry about that. I really do apologize.”

     “No need.” I patted her hand softly and she looked thrilled. “Trust me, Allison — I’m used to people not knowing who I am.”

     “It must drive you crazy — people knowing your face but not your name.”

     “Edward Burns,” I said confidently.

     Who was I to ruin her fantasy? She looked very pleased.

     “Can I call you Ed?”

     “Everybody does.”

     “Does anyone call you Eddie?”

     “My mother – when she was mad at me.”

     “Now she’s proud of you, of course.”

     “She passed away.”

     “Oh, Ed – I’m so sorry.”

     “That’s okay. Thanks. It was a long time ago.” I finished my coffee and smiled at her. “But now, I really have to run, although it was very nice to meet you, Allison.”

    “Likewise, Ed. Are you off to some movie location around here?”

     “No, no – nothing like that.” I tied to think of some excuse to leave that didn’t seem like I was just bolting. “I’m meeting Bob DeNiro for a drink.”

     “Really? Wow – Robert DeNiro. Where?”

     “At his place. It’s not far.” I stood. “And I better not be late – we can’t be standing up DeNiro, you know.”

     “Of course not,” she said gravely.

     A young woman at a nearby table heard me say DeNiro and studied my face for a few seconds before falling back into her conversation. I gently squeezed Allison’s shoulder and left before she could ask for an autograph. I felt that coming. I didn’t want to have to make that choice. That would have been a defining moment, for sure. I knew that would have been a mistake.

     When I got back to the hotel, I ate fettucine alfredo in the restaurant before going upstairs to put on a clean shirt to go back to Adolfo’s. But instead, something changed inside me, and I looked out at the Manhattan skyline for a few minutes and decided I’d had enough fame for one day.

     I clicked on the TV and looked over the movie menu and laughed out loud: Saving Private Ryan was available. I got a cold Heineken from the minibar, stacked pillows behind my head, eased back, and found the channel.

     I wanted to see Edward Burns.

BIO

Michael Loyd Gray is the author of eight published novels or novellas and nearly sixty published short stories. He earned a MFA from Western Michigan University and a bachelor’s degree from the University of Illinois. Gray’s novella Busted Flat, winner of a Literary Titan Gold Award, was released in October 2024. His novella Donovan’s Revolution, winner of a 2025 International Impact Award for Contemporary Fiction, a Literary Titan Gold Award, and a 2025 Book Excellence Award for Historical Fiction, was released in June 2024. Released in February 2025 — Night Hawks, a novella. His novel The Armageddon Two-Step, winner of a Book Excellence Award, was released in December 2019. His novel The Writer in Residence is forthcoming from Between the Lines Publishing. Gray lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan, with three cats and a lot of electric guitars.