Do You Copy?
Geoffrey Aitken
I’d seen him midday, consecutive Wednesdays, this last month easing through the crowded square on his way to an executive luncheon – perhaps.
He looked as neat as a mannequin, suited, dress shirt – adorably colourful. A wide brimmed, fedora hat for the sunshine sat atop his DiCaprio head almost unchanged since university days. He had excelled of course.
He had a mature renown, developed during overseas postings in the media and theatre that brought welcome metropolis fame before a head-hunted hometown return saw local business leadership as his.
Would he remember me? Unticketed, boozy, filled with an incompatibility for study, or any personal improvement with a certainty about not wanting to ‘grow-up’ – ever.
Fifth Wednesday I approached him, stalled his march mid-stride asking, “Mr. DiCaprio, may I have an autograph, please.”
His surprise was of course palpable and without his hat I witnessed that boyish face and combed hair so appealing, a loom could not have produced a weave so tight.
Harrumph returned an embarrassment as I caught him unaware, and he fumbled for a polite denial that could avoid my flattering mistake altogether excusable but unnecessary. His short apology relieved us, and we parted, both (I guessed) uncertained by what had just transpired.
I made some quick mental notes regarding the manner in which I might manage this into the future.
Two weeks later I bumped into him carelessly but purposely so that my move appeared natural before I bravely mentioned my mistake of a fortnight earlier and hoping (in plain English) I had not disgraced myself nor damaged his certainty, still keeping our shared past a secret.
He postured and failed to recall the incident which annoyed me and my attempt to make this into something grander.
Weeks seven, eight, and nine I preposterously shouted, “Hey Leo, Leonardo DiCaprio,” and then “Wilhelm, Wilhelm, over here,” before and lastly, “Hey there Jay, Jay Gatsby”, respectively.
Each time his head swivelled sharply into and beyond the throng toward me, comfortably camouflaged of course, and impenetrable to his searching gaze.
Weeks later, I noticed his dress sense had modelled Leonardo and lifted, ever so slightly above his routine code. Open and bold that trademark hairstyle mimicked the celebrity as if to a mirror. At a later date he even wore a cravat. How audacious.
And so too the subsequent weeks where he appeared to be flaunting this newly won status and, in front of younger women. He even brushed against them, smiling as if seeking acknowledgement and recognition.
By week twenty I was certain he had become the A-lister and all doubt was removed when close by I overheard a young man ask his attractive female companion, as he passed;
“Was that Leonardo DiCaprio?”
My mind was set.
I walked away. Almost strutted.
Geoffrey Aitken writes in Adelaide, on unceded Kaurna land as an awarded emerging poet whose stylized industrial minimalism communicates his lived experience with publishers both locally (AUS) and internationally (the UK, US, CAN, Fr & CN). Most recently, 'Ariel Chart', 'Plum Tree Tavern' (US), and 'Wishbone Words' (UK). Recently at ‘Old Water Rat’ and, ‘Social Alternatives’(AUS). His MS ‘fresh soundings’, was long listed in the “Flying Islands Poetry Manuscript Prize”. Nominated this year for the annual Best of the Net anthology.
