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PASTANO:

It’s like this:

Clovis, whose name I obviously didn’t know was Clovis until he’d introduced himself, walks up to me and says, “you remind me of someone I know. You look like him.” Says this while I’m sitting—lounging, really—on a park-type bench, sitting and reading the morning paper and drinking from one of those little glass bottles of orange juice.

I look up at him and say, “really?”
“Yeah,” he says.
“A friend of yours?”
“Could say that.”
“That’s, um, interesting.”

I go back to reading my paper, assuming his comment is just the sort of passing amicable comment you toss out to a perfect stranger who may or may not actually remind you of someone you want to know; a kind of breed of small-talk, relating similarities.

“Yeah. My name’s Clovis,” he says, sitting down on the bench beside me. I look at him, noting that he’s not the kind of person you expect to randomly go up to you and initiate a conversation.
“Pastano,” I say, and I reach across my paper, setting down the orange juice, to shake hands with Clovis.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he says, his massive, meaty palm enveloping mine.
“Sure,” I say, shaking his hand. It’s not the tight, viselike grip you might expect, but I get a sneaky suspicion that he could, if he wanted to, squeeze my hand into a runny pulp. Maybe even squeeze so hard there’s no pulp left, it’s all smooth and runny liquid hand.

Clovis relates how his friend’s in need of a favor. Maybe a favor that I could provide, seeing as I’m in the unique position of resembling him physically. My response is that I’m just in town to visit some friends, I don’t really have business in town or know much about the place or see, really, how I could do any favors for anyone. “Meaning no disrespect to you or this friend of yours,” I say.
“None taken. It would be just a day of your time, no more. Not even a day.”
“I’m only in the area for another three days.”
“Seven hours is all he’d need, really.”
“This friend of yours got a name?”
“Boots, but that’s not important.”
“Boots?” I ask. A joke about a puss seems like it would likely be ill-advised, if somewhat comical.
“Yeah, Boots. Six hours would do, really,” Clovis says, leaning back in the bench, arms crossed as he gazes speculatively across the pond.
“What’s this favor you’re asking?”
“I need you to go to a movie. Though it’s not so much what I need as what my friend needs, you understand. I’m only acting as an intermediary.”
“Go to a movie?”
“I’ll give you a ticket. Two tickets, you can take a friend. As many tickets as you want—”
“You want me to go to a movie?”
“—within reason, of course. I can only give you so many tickets, you realize.”
“Any movie in particular?”
“I get to pick the movie. You’ll like it, though, I’m sure. It’s a very likeable movie. Well-made. Tasteful.”
“Okay, what’s the catch?”
“After the movie, you go out to dinner.”
“That doesn’t sound like a catch.”
“It’s not, really.”
“At like a restaurant, you mean? Dinner?”
“Yeah. And I get to pick the restaurant. Well, Boots picks.”
“Okay…”
“But you won’t have to pay, if you’re wondering. It’ll all be covered.”

I say, Clovis, what’s the catch? Nothing, he says, no catches. Is it like a game show gimmick or something? Hardly, he grins a big, clam-like grin.

tbc

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