That's the Guy

“Did I ever tell you about the time I met Marilyn Monroe?” he asked.

“You never met Marilyn Monroe,” she replied.

They stood at the back, away from all the others. He drank pinot noir, she drank pinot gris.

“It was 1954, San Francisco,” he continued, staring through the wall behind her at a world of possibilities, a world that didn't exist. “She looked good.”

“Of course, she looked good, she was Marilyn Monroe. Also, you never met her.”

He waved his hand at her, brushing aside the comment like gnats.

“She's no Jayne Mansfield, mind you, but still.”

“Oh, so now you met Jayne Mansfield?”

“Yeah, but I don't wanna to get into that.” He smiled. “I mean, I wanted to get into that, but it just didn't work out for either of us.”

“You and Mansfield?”

He brushed aside gnats again. “Whatever, we're talking about Marilyn.”

He swirled his wine, she sipped hers.

“Anyway, we're at this joint in Nob Hill. She's sitting alone drinking champagne and this tall, slender cat walks in and starts chatting her up. I mean, he was lean but strong, like he could take care of business if it came to that.”

“Sounds fascinating, do go on,” she said, finishing her wine.

“I keep thinking, this guy looks familiar. It's bugging the crap out of me, you know? Like I've seen him but I can't figure out where. Everything's out of context.”

She nodded and motioned for a server to bring her another.

“Then it hits me: That's Mickey Mantle! The ballplayer.”

She smiled as the server placed another glass of wine in her hand. “That wasn't Mickey Mantle, it was Joe DiMaggio.”

“Yeah, that's the guy.”