We’ve all got one – the story we’ve told over and over again so many times that it’s like second nature. The one that all of our friends and family know, and the one that we feel helps to illustrate something about us. We all share these stories with new friends. Sometimes they’re funny, sometimes they’re sad, and sometimes, they’re just odd. This one is mine.
It was a Saturday in mid-August, and I was wandering around a local mall, basking in the air conditioned joy that one only truly experiences when living in the desert in August. I stopped to look at a sign in front of a video game shop advertising a new console, when I heard a young voice shout, “It’s YOU!”
Before I had time to fully assess the situation, I found myself crowded by a half-dozen small children, the oldest of whom must have been eight or nine. All of them had big grins on their faces, looking at me with wide-eyed wonder. Finally, one of them, missing her two front teeth and with her hair in braided pigtails, spoke up. ”Where’s your owl?”
I had no idea what she was talking about, and was about to tell her as much. ”I, uh, don’t have an owl–” Then, I saw that behind the kids, there was a small army of their mothers, staring intently at me. One of them made the universal sign for Play Along, while another shot me the look of death. So I did the only thing I could do.
I lied.
“–here. My owl is at home.”
I should probably point out that this occurred in 2000, before the films had come out. I’d skipped the books, having skimmed a bit of the first and not enjoying it that much. So it took me a while to catch on.
“Where’s your wand?” A boy in a Kermit shirt asked.
I waffled. ”It’s at home, with the owl.” The mothers were all glaring now.
“But shouldn’t a wizard always have his wand?”
“Well, usually, I guess so, but I’m on vacation, so it’s okay.”
“Don’t you spend your summers with your aunt and uncle? In their basement?”
“They let me out.”
Another boy chimed in. ”That doesn’t sound right…”
The glares were becoming quite intense now.
“Erm…I used a spell to get out of the house for a bit.”
“Don’t you need a wand for that? And where’s your scar?”
And then I realized what was happening.
The kids thought that I was Harry Potter.
With the full power of a half-dozen mothers glaring at me viciously, I proceeded to badly mumble my way through about ten more minutes of questions. And I must have done a pretty good job, since the kids asked me for autographs when it was all done.
It’s at this point that someone questions how much I looked like young Mr. Potter, so I show them my old license photo, taken a few years later. So, here’s my old license photo, taken a few years later.
After the kids and their moms (who stopped glaring some time around when I was answering questions about Hagrid) had left, I realized two things: I needed a haircut, and I might have been better off with contacts. But that’s another story.
And years later, when I still tell the tale of how I had been a fictional character for about 15 minutes, I think of the best part: there’s around a half-dozen guys and girls who are probably in college now that have autographs from Harry Potter.
