Back in September, a friend and I were exiting a restaurant when a customer said "Have a good evening, Mr. Reynolds."
Well, another case of mistaken identity took place last week. I was in a mini mart, waiting for my hot dogs, when one of the workers asked "How are you doing, Mr. Stevens?"
I said, No, I'm not Mike Stevens, and before I revealed my true identity, he backed off in embarrassment. The worker returned a few minutes later and admitted he asked the cashier who I was, and she corrected him. No worries. It's all good. If I am to be mistaken for anyone, Mike is a good choice. Although, all we really have in common is the gray hair.
I miss Mike. The pandemic sent us on separate paths, and I've seen him only a few times in the past year and a half. I long for those b.s. sessions at his desk, talking about our old radio days. There are very few people in the newsroom who can relate.
In fact, this is the second time I've been mistaken for Mike. The first time happened a few years ago, in another mini mart run by the same company. There must be something in the soda.
