Don't I Know You? by Marni Jackson Page A

invited us to rent the small apartment at the back of their farm for July and August, with the idea that this sojourn in the country might salvage our relationship. A plan that was not working out so far. I had an assignment from Outside magazine that was overdue, and the writing had stalled. It was hard for Roberto, a news photographer from Colombia, to find much work in the small city of Kingston. The mood at home was sullen, and my response was to book extra shifts in order to stay out of the apartment. Communication was not our strong point.
    During lunch shift one August day, one of the waitresses came into the kitchen with a bottle of white wine. “This is for you,” Sherry said with a slight eye-roll, “from the boys by the window.”
    The hungover guys. They had ordered two double espressos from me when I was out front earlier. I went back into the dining room to thank them, and this time I recognized one as Dan Aykroyd, of early Saturday Night Live fame. The fish in a blender guy. I knew his family had a cottage on a lake north of Kingston. But I didn’t recognize his friend, who looked strikingly ordinary. It turned out to be Bill Murray. He had just finished his first season on the show and wasn’t famous yet. This was pre- Ghostbusters too. He was just a guy with nice brown eyes and a roundish nose, hanging out with his TV buddy.
    I thanked them for the wine. The three of us kibitzed back and forth, and then Bill Murray asked for my phone number. Oh, that would not be appropriate, I said with a flirtatious smile, swatting him. I didn’t bother to explain that I was living with someone, my waning boyfriend. Then I went back to the kitchen and my sink full of lettuce. At this point, I believe I made a decision, although I wasn’t ready to admit it at the time. The fog of denial, when you are avoiding a breakup, can cover many sins. I dried my hands, wrote my name and number on a piece of paper, folded it inside a fresh hamburger bun, and put it in my apron pocket. As if I had no plans for it.
    When I finished with the lettuce, Zal asked me to take over at the cash, which I did, just as Bill Murray and Dan Aykroyd came over to pay their bill.
    â€œIf you don’t have a phone, that’s a whole other matter,” said Bill Murray.
    Which is when I took the hamburger bun out of my apron and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He acted like this was normal behavior for a cashier in a restaurant and I thought we were just playing out our little scene. It was fun to flirt with someone so nimble, really fun, but by the time I left work later on I had forgotten all about the exchange.
    I took the bottle of wine home for another silent knife-clicking dinner with Roberto.
    â€œAny luck today?” I asked. He had pitched a photo essay to the Whig about the women in solitary confinement at the infamous Kingston Prison for Women.
    â€œNo,” he said, and did not elaborate.
    The next morning the phone rang.
    â€œIt’s Bill. Want to catch a ball game tomorrow night?”
    Bluff called. I dithered and said I had to work. I also explained that I was currently, technically, involved with someone.
    â€œFine. No problem. So just meet us for drinks,” said Bill Murray.
    Well, why not, I thought. I’m an individual. People meet other people for drinks all the time.
    â€œTell me when you get off work and we’ll pick you up outside the restaurant,” Bill Murray said.
    The next day I told Roberto that I’d be working late, and put some eyeliner in my purse.
    That summer I commuted everywhere by bicycle, including the twenty-kilometer ride from the farm to the town and back. I had long blond hair, wore Gloria Steinem aviator glasses, and had just come back from a five-month cycling expedition in South America with Roberto, so I was thinner than usual and in good shape. But South America had done us in—it was just too hard, too isolating, a ridiculous undertaking.